July 2007 Archives

Judging from her jailbird threads, Pussycat Doll Melody Thornton is ten minutes away from bursting into a very obvious version of  "Cell Block Tango."

Which is awesome when you're actually appearing in cheesy dinner theatre production of Chicago, attending some kind of Chicago fan convention where you are competing in the Velma Kelly-Alike Contest, or are just going to Chicago but enjoy being as thematic as possible. Otherwise, it's all a bit too Everyone's Visiting The Big House, I Better Jump On the Bandwagon (Call Me, Lindsay!) for me.

Oh, Bai Ling. How I've missed your whimsical, wacky, often nipple-y presence on the red carpet. Much like I feel about the Peldons, I enjoy making fun of your outfits and when you're gone, I really miss you and hope you haven't fallen into hardship, hard times, or the evil clutches of someone who doesn't understand that your eighteen personalities are a hilarious delight and need to be nurtured appropriately.

Particularly this personality:

I believe this is Number Sixteen, Ye Olde Western Saloon Barmaid and Part-Time Pedicure Fetishist.

Can anyone help me understand why Corey Feldman is wearing a fur turban?

Don't get me wrong -- Joan Collins has taught me a healthy appreciation for the majesty of a fur turban. I just hadn't pegged Mouth from The Goonies as a hardcore Dynasty fan.

But there's a line between "cunning sexpot" and "wicked pimp," and the man who briefly went by Kinky Finkelstein appears to have crossed it here. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that the Coreys are trying to make a comeback after some pretty disastrous decades (and, in the case of El Haim, the most awkward E! True Hollywood Story ever, in which he actually and sort of tragically devolves into babbling total gibberish at one point) but maybe dressing up like you rent out ladies by night isn't the best way to convince us you're back on track.

I was going to comment, in somewhat snippier tones, that I don't care for what clothing designer Jessie Della Femina is wearing.

And then I realized that might not be fair: Is she really technically wearing it? Or is it simply strung up there carelessly trying to decorate her? One enthusiastic shrug, one wild gesture, and the groceries will come tumbling out of the bag.

It's so sad when kids today treat their chests like curtain rods. What are they teaching in sex-ed, anyway?

Lunchtime quiz! (Okay, it's nearly 3pm. Late lunchtime quiz? Tea time quiz? Snack time quiz? Whatever).

Just when I thought I'd run out of things to say about leggings, J Lo Hew shows up and does me a solid:

...okay, so maybe I have nothing new to say about leggings, after all.  But these are bad! Unnecessary and bad! Unnecessary and bad and altogether too much like 18th century knee breeches she's dug up somehow and repurposed.  Just looking at her, I feel like she's mere moments away from challenging me to a duel.  Probably because I just made fun of her leggings.

PAUL RUBENS: Does anyone else think it's strange that I'm the most normal-looking person in this picture?

DAVID ARQUETTE: My spinal cord totally looks like it's wearing a tie!

PAUL: I mean, seriously. I'm PEE-WEE HERMAN, and I look like somebody's responsible older brother. I wonder if I secretly work in insurance.

DAVID: Is this floppy thing a pancreas?

PAUL: This looks like the set-up to a really bad joke: "A skeleton, a warrior in a codpiece, and an infamous makeup-wearing man-child walk into a bar..."

DAVID: OUCH!

PAUL: THIS guy is married to Courteney Cox? Was she out of town?

DAVID: THREE CHEERS FOR THE LOWER INTESTINE!

BEEFCAKE: Oh, finally something I can weigh in on! Have you ever made your own knee-high sandals from the colons of your kill? It's totally easy -- I saw it on Martha.

PAUL: I think it's past my bedtime.

I was talking about The Bourne Ultimatum recently, and promptly had a dream that night about Joan Allen. In it, she appeared at my front door and I acted like I had been expecting to see her, and she proceeded to sit me down, give me a cupcake, and then yell at me for not getting a pedicure recently enough for her taste. Then she had a Diet Coke.

Fortunately for her, she was not wearing this outfit in the dream, or I would have had to point out to her VERY sternly that she is way too lovely a lady to be wearing clothes that the owner of Forever 21 has tacked up onto his wall next to a photo of him counting his money and a sign that says, "SUCKERS!" And then she might not have let me eat the cupcake. And I have to say, the cupcake was REALLY good. And I do need a pedicure. AND Diet Coke is awesome. So maybe Dream Joan Allen is all-around a lot wiser than the real one. I hope she comes back tonight with something in the red-velvet cake family.

The makers of Kate Mara's dress would like to apologize to Ms. Mara, to the fans, and to the fine people at the premiere of Stardust: The Movie With Tons Of Famous People In It Like Michelle Pfeiffer and Robert DeNiro, Yet Which Somehow I Had No Idea Was Even Being Made. See, time was running low and the bodice just wasn't staying up and some nipple was slipping and it was just all going totally haywire, so they were forced to admit defeat and blinker the headlights and skulk home to drown in a case of Jose Cuervo. They deeply regret any cognitive distress their strange surrender may have caused you, the viewer, and even MORE deeply regret the fact that they did not concede the fight with enough time left to sell the space on that ribbon to a lucky advertiser.

Tell the truth. If I told you that the below picture was snapped while Marc Anthony was giving a toast at a wedding reception, while bridesmaid (and tragic victim of self-tanner) Jennifer Lopez looked on, you would totally believe me:

She's just waiting for him to shut up so she can hit the open bar .

Well, that part may actually be true.

Dear Leah Remini:

Perhaps you should consider getting a new make-up artist. Unless you want people's reactions to your face to be, "WHOA. Did she get some work done? Oh....I think it's just her make-up."

Unless, of course, you DID get some work done, and this is a very sly ploy to distract us by using 12 tons of eye-makeup. Either way, I can barely look at this photo, so badly do I want to run up to you and fix those clumps of stray brow hairs over your left eye.

I know Olivia Wilde is married to a prince (Wikipedia tells me that he's "an Italian documentary filmmaker, photographer and flamenco guitar player of  aristocratic origin," which sounds very dramatic and romantic and like one of those relationships where you get divorced and then remarried five or six times, and have multiple arguments that include the phrase, "you love your guitar more than you love me!" accompanied by the smashing of plates and followed by passionate love-making).  Maybe that's why she's paired her jeans with what looks like one of Guinevere's rejected costumes from a community theatre production of Camelot:

I wonder if the prince is wandering around in a suit of armor.  That would make it harder to play the guitar.

JULIA STILES: I'm so miserable.

MATT DAMON: I'm just looking at my wife over there.

JULIA: All these undergarments -- count them, Matt! I'm wearing like TWELVE OF THEM.

MATT: I can't...I don't think I should do that.

JULIA: And you can STILL see my underwear.

MATT: And...other stuff. Maybe. I'm not looking.

JULIA: What are you talking about?

MATT: I mean, maybe it's just a really big freckle. On your boob. Not that I looked. At your boob. Let's just get this over with, okay?

JULIA: YOU CAN NOT SEE MY NIPPLE.

MATT: Maybe. I'm not looking. But the whole thing, it's pretty sheer. I'm just saying. It might be happening. I don't want to stare at your boob to make sure.

JULIA: I can not BELIEVE this is happening.

MATT: It is pretty awkward. I hear nude, lined undergarments can help.

JULIA: Where did you hear that?

MATT: I read things, okay? Sometimes I like to read InStyle while they're doing my make-up. If Ben's in there, I can make fun of him for weeks.

JULIA: And now you're making fun of ME? THAT'S JUST GREAT.

MATT: I'm not making fun of you! I'm trying to help.

JULIA: That's it. I'm retiring. Effective immediately.

MATT: Come on, now. This can't be nearly as embarrassing as Down to You was.

JULIA: You have a point.

This is one of those looks that I'm going to try desperately to forget, and just when I've convinced myself that I've succeeded, it will come wailing into my brain like the visual equivalent of a fire engine, interrupting my transcendental meditation or leg waxing or whatever I'm serenely doing at the time:

Kim Stewart, you fool. I know you're dating Tommy Lee, but that doesn't mean you ought to wear pants last seen on Vince Neil circa 1986. Or a twee, wee leather bolero. It's like you can't QUITE commit to a full-on leather jacket, but you still want to look a teensy bit rock and roll.  Unfortunately, the overall effect is that you stole this from an extremely cool toddler, and it's a miracle that you've managed to shove your arms through the sleeves without ripping them. Which is less rock and roll and more totally deranged.

SWOOSIE KURTZ:  I can't believe she went ahead and wore that dress after I told her I was going to wear THIS one. THAT BITCH.

ELLEN GREENE: THAT BITCH. I can't believe she wore that dress when she KNEW I was going to wear THIS one. We  look ...COORDINATED.

SWOOSIE: I hate working SO MUCH.

ELLEN: I played Slyar's mother on Heroes and battled a blood-thirsty, psychotic plant in Little Shop of Horrors. I can take her, right?

SWOOSIE: She better sleep with one eye open, is all I'm saying.

ELLEN: This is going to be a fun set, I can tell.

I just wrote, "Heather Matarazzo is great in Big Love," and then I realized that I was thinking of Tina Majorino. They don't even look alike, really -- I must have just been seduced by the similar rhythm of their names. I guess this is what they meant when they said the rhythm is gonna get you. I thought that was a more sinister reference, actually, so I'll take it.

Anyway, Heather Matarazzo:

I actually think all the separate parts of this are good/cute/reasonable/orange, it's just that, as a whole, she looks like she woke up after a work-night one night stand and couldn't bear to put on the pants she'd worn the day before (because they're covered in beer/lost in her standee's apartment/too obviously the pants she'd worn the day before, totally walk-of-shame style) and so she dug up the cut-off jean skirt she left in the car after wearing it to the beach over the weekend and threw it on and just airily pretended like she totally meant to wear her Ladies Who Lunch Shoes and Bag with her I Wear This to the Farmer's Market on Saturday ratty jean skirt.

Remember cute little Anna Chlumsky, from the Macaulay Culkin super-weeper, My Girl? I didn't either, until I found out that she's back:

Those shoes are making ME go into anaphylactic shock. I mean, I'm sure they're perfect if you're wearing them with trousers and dashing for the subway, or doing them with jeans and going into casual Friday at your really-not-that-casual job, or pairing them with a pencil skirt and running from a serial killer, but I can't figure out why anyone would choose to wear dowdy-ish black pumps with a whimsical white summer dress-thing when it's like ninety thousand humid degrees outside. Not to mention the fact that one of them appears to have a hole over the toe. I mean, I'm as big a fan of the peep-toe as anyone, but -- like tattoos or your pap smear -- that's so not something you ought to DIY.

There are many signs that you're having a bad week;  you end up shaving your head in a rage, for example, or your hosting service goes down for a couple of hours, along with LiveJournal, thus preventing you from discussing the finer details of Harry Potter with people, or you get word that Madame Tussauds  has undressed your wax figure in order to dress you like a prisoner of the long arm of the law -- before you've even been arraigned!

God, Madame Tussauds, ever heard of innocent before proven guilty? It's not like getting caught for a DUI and possession of cocaine, like, a week after getting out of rehab that was mandated by the last time you got caught driving drunk with cocaine in the car, while wearing an alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet that you made a great big loud self-congratulatory deal about and chasing a woman in car is THAT BIG A DEAL, right? I mean, COME ON. And adding insult to injury, it's not even a NEW set of jailbird rags -- they're totally Paris Hilton's cast-offs.

Of all the new shows slated for fall, I think I might most be excited about Gossip Girl. The books are a delightful guilty pleasure - like an even soapier Sweet Valley High, but with way more sex and drugs and swearing and name-dropping and monkeys-- and everyone knows that Josh Schwartz can pull off at least one awesome season of a soapy teen drama, before devolving into meta-statements via comic books and cage-fighting (okay, the cage-fighting was kind of awesome).

The stars of the show look JUST as stoked as I am, no?

Hmmm. Maybe Taylor Momsen just looks cranky because her stylist decided to make her look as beige and monochromatic as possible, or maybe the panel has somehow gotten around to talking about how -- while she's obviously a really cute girl -- she's a very strange casting choice for the role of Jenny Humphrey, whose very (she feels overly) ample breasts, curly brown hair and intense adolescent distress at not being petite and blonde are mentioned about ninety times per book.  Momsen is adorable in her own right, obviously, but it's sort of like casting Britney Spears as Mother Theresa.

On the other hand, Blake Lively here seems like an excellent choice for blonde goddess, Serena, while the actress whose name I always forget (....Leighton Meester! Thank you, IMDb) looks just smug enough for the role of Blair, and seems as charmingly shifty and plotty as Blair is, seeing as she's somehow gotten her counterpart here to attach a miniaturized cream window treatment to her bosom:

I likewise appreciate that the actors playing the adults in the series are out of focus and in the background, as they should be in a teen drama. Remember how boring it was every time 90210 tried to get us to care if Cindy Walsh had an affair? Can't we learn from that?

I also can't wait until the series premieres, and I hate everyone I thought I'd love and have to eat all my words and end up starting TaylorMomsenIsPerfectAsJenny.com 

Sure, sure, Parker Posey is very cool, what with all the independent movies and the moxie and all that. Which is exactly why it's so alarming to see her wearing a housedress that I am pretty sure my grandma used to putter around the house in, circa 1980:

While flats, leggings (the support hose of the younger generation) and a housedress are perfect for spying on your neighbors through the shutters in your dining room;  feeding the neighborhood strays; calling your granddaughter to dramatically announce that you're pretty sure you're not going to live through the week, and then sitting down with a pastrami sandwich to watch Young and the Restless;  arguing with your sister for twenty invigorating minutes, as you did every week since you were both born; or reading the National Enquirer while sitting in front of your window air-conditioner and eating ice cream, it is NOT so perfect for the red carpet.

Or the plywood box, I guess, in this case. Way to splash out for your summer party, FOX. I hope, at least, that it was open bar.

What you don't know about Chris Meloni is that he spends his hiatus from SVU driving town cars for Manhattan Limo and Car Service, and occasionally piloting a ferry:

Oh, Debs.

There's something about this drapey extravaganza coupled with the way she's cradling that ball (insert "that's what SHE said" joke here) that makes her look sort of like a soothsayer on the verge of being hospitalized for exhaustion and dehydration. "Fine, fine, I'll see what the future holds for you. God. I'm so tired. I wonder if a Vitamin B shot would help. Um...yeah, don't travel on the 7th. Is this a new bruise? Damn. I need to get my iron levels checked. Uh...a man from your past is going to reappear. He wants something from you, or something. I don't know. Do you mind if I lie down? Also, the gods want me to tell you to quit trying to kill your brother. That's all I'm getting. Sorry, kid. Leave the cash on the table."

TOM CRUISE: IT'S GOOD TO BE TOM CRUISE!

KATIE HOLMES: I am a tall drink of water, aren't I? Suck on these heels, Tom.

POSH: What is Jada WEARING?

BECKS: These people all make me a little uneasy.

JADA PINKETT SMITH: I look JUST like Posh. Short black dress, loads of boobs, sore expression. I'm awesome.

WILL SMITH: This party is OFF THE HOOK! I wonder if the DJ will play  "Willennium" if I ask.

TOM: I'M THE KING OF HOLLYWOOD. I don't even care that Katie threw out the lifts in these shoes. That's right, America. THE CRUISES THROW A TOTALLY BOSS PAR-TAY!

KATIE: I don't care what anyone says. I like this haircut, and I'm going to keep it. I can do whatever I want. I control me.

POSH: Is Jada....she's not trying to look like me, is she? She didn't think this was a Posh and Becks themed fancy dress party, did she? This is awkward. Also, I'm hungry.

BECKS: I think Jada's nipple might be popping out of that pillowcase she's wearing. I better look...over there. And think about something else. Like my muscular, manly thighs.

JADA: Is my nipple popping out? Would Victoria check to see if her nipple was popping out? I don't think so. Keep your bitchface on, Jada.

WILL: I'm glad I wore my dancing shoes. Wait until I have the DJ play "Getting Jiggy Wit' It." I WILL be gettin' jiggy wit' it.  I can't wait to ditch the rest of these weirdos and have some fun. Although I bet Becks can dance. Look at those legs.

I kind of can't even find the words to talk about all the things that are wrong with poor Natasha Beddingfield's outfit here:

Can I start with the fact that, unless you are playing the role of Daisy Duke in your school's musical adaptation of The Dukes of Hazzard (called, of course, Them Dukes!), the tied-up-way-above-your-belly-button tee shirt is just.... kind of a mistake, even if you have a stomach flat enough to bounce a quarter off of.  Add poorly-made white jean capris and cowboy boots and -- hey, wait a second. Maybe she actually IS playing Daisy Duke in a musical adaptation of The Dukes of Hazzard. I mean, she can sing.  Let's just decide that's what's happening here, because if she and her stylist and her manager looked at this and said, collectively, "this is awesome!" then I can not be held responsible for my actions.

Look, I have to be honest with you, our beloved readership. I might have had too much wine last night. And Heather is off on a wee vacay, so she's not around. And Intern George said something about cleaning his pool and then muttered something that sounded like, "in Italy," and left, wearing a sun hat and madras shorts, the new Harry Potter under his arm. It's hot as a boiler room at GFY HQ and my head is spinning. So just tell me already, is Alicia Silverstone's tee shirt AWESOME in an "Take Back the Chico's Kind of Day" kind of way, or embarrassing in a "Honey, You're Not Avant-Garde Enough to Make This Work" kind of way?

Great hair, though, Cher.

PS: Apparently, it's a cheetah. Or a leopard. I don't know. I HAVE A HEADACHE.

Former GFY regular Paget Brewster is BACK. And she looks pretty cute, I have to say:

So sleek and summery and leggy! I love the bracelets, especially the clear one. Though I have to admit, I rather miss her fish purse.   Kind of like the Fugger's version of Stockholm Syndrome.

Regular readers may be aware of my mad, powerful love for How I Met Your Mother. When it was rumored that the show might not be returning this fall, I felt myself turning into one of those people who rents a plane and circles CBS, dragging a banner that says, like, "Les Moonves Eats Babies." I was even wondering if I could somehow appeal to Julie Chen to intervene. I don't know Julie Chen, of course -- although I spend many summer nights with her, thanks to my shameful Big Brother addiction -- but she seems reasonable. Thank God, the show is back on the air, and I don't have to turn into some sort of wild-haired, plane-flying fanatic. I can just be my usual dirty-haired, lay-about fanatic. ANYHOODLE, the point being, HIMYM is really good, and one of the best parts of it is the wardrobe they've given Alyson Hannigan's character, Lily.  She is always wearing some great little dress I need to have in my closet. So it wasn't a shock to the system to see her out and about in this:

I think it's vintage -- she's attending the opening of a vintage store in Los Angeles, and it's lovely. And I NEED her shoes. But...what's up with the hair? Heavy, spiky, uneven bangs might work on....huh. I'm drawing a blank. I'm sure they work on someone. But they make most of us look like we got gum in our bangs, and this -- along with a lot of  heavy sighing, and some scolding -- is what happened after our mom found out.

I was also concerned that that was, somehow, the front side of a terribly misguided bowl cut, but thank god, that's not the case:

Apparently, this is the week on GFY when I comment on people's hair more than usual, which is kind of like the time on Sprockets when we dance except without a body stocking.

And so I present to you: Reason No. 48 Why Dylan McKay Is The Only Person Who Should Be Wearing Dylan McKay's Hair.

This is Austin Nichols in a TV promo for John From Cincinnati -- on which, ironically, he co-stars with his apparent hair model, Luke Perry.

I can see the appeal of putting on your surf-culture-based show a main character whose hair crests like a mighty breaking wave, and I can certainly see the appeal of wanting to look like everybody's favorite brooding rebel with a heart of gold, or at least, finest gold plate.

But this is, to me, a clear-cut case of Way Too Much On Top. Allow me to demonstrate. By a very unscientific combination of Photoshop and holding a ruler up to my computer screen, I have come up with the following:

Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we read that she got those things fixed?

Girl, your legs look great, but Righty McBoob over there is making a run for the border, while Lefty Bazongastern is about to dash over to the open bar and get itself a G&T (also, I can see your underwear, but panties are in short supply these days, so you'll get a pass. For now. Like how we forgive burglars when there's a serial killer on the loose).

A closer, more horrifying look at Ms Reid's boobular situation after the jump. It's....not entirely safe for work.

So, the Chelsea soccer squad (okay, okay, "football" -- listen, I can't help it, I'm an American. To me, football will always involve Keith Jackson, super tight pants, and either the words "OH MY GOD, RUN! RUN" or "GET HIMMMMM!" spilling out of my mouth at very high decibels,  and god bless it. Which is why, I suppose, I always feel compelled to say "football" with a Tanya Turner-inspired British accent when referring to Soccer Football, so as to differentiate between the two) is here in Los Angeles for an exhibition game versus the David Beckham-ified LA Galaxy, and, frankly, it's all pretty exciting, even if I do insist on calling it soccer. In addition to the sports- and Beckham-related excitement, all the Soccer Football groupies are coming out. And they are divine. Like this young lady:

She's an actress (and, I think, a former professional wrestler) named Simona Fusco and I have the sneaking suspicion that she enjoys tanning. Call me psychic. I also sense that this is a nightgown. I suspect she's paired it with part of the wardrobe she wore in the 2006 film Bottoms Up, in which she played the pivotal role of  "Flashing Girl."

Then we've got semi-regular Fugee, and the only Fugee with a title (at least until Posh is given the duchy she so richly deserves), Lady Victoria Hervey:

I love loud patterns as much as the next girl -- seriously -- but this thing is giving me a migraine, one of the ones with an aura, which is just about to knock out my sight entirely, which, frankly, is probably for the best. Although I'm peeved that the last thing I'll see for the next few hours is:

Internal Monologues...with Shannyn Sossamon:

Huh....I feel like I forgot to do something before I left the house today. I wonder what it was...

I feel like it might have had something to do with my hair.....

OH NO. Did I forget to brush it...AGAIN?

ARGH! I'm just going to shave it all off!

Because apparently, 2007 is the year that we learned all August covers are painful:

Loving the color of the dress -- though maybe not on Winona, actually -- but if I were her, and planning on making some kind of comeback (which I assume she is, as the cover tells us she's STARTING OVER AT 35, like this is SO VERY VERY CHALLENGING because 35 is SO VERY OLD OH MY GOD I BETTER GET STARTED ON MY LIVING WILL),  this isn't exactly the way I'd want to kick it off.  She doesn't look 35 to me. She looks....older. Tired. Mildly to moderately anemic. Like her allergies are kicking up in this field and she is stifling a sneeze. Hungry. Fighting back from the heartbreak of scoliosis.  As though she used whipped egg whites in the place of hair gel. What's the deal? Did she lift something from Anna's office?*

*Sorry, Wino, but I couldn't resist. Loved you in Heathers.  Hate to see you looking like you just chugged a mug of Drano.

There's something likable about Queen Latifah (née Dana Owens). She's bubbly, she's confident, she's talented as hell, she always looks like she's having fun, she SERIOUSLY worked that cleavage in her big Chicago number, she has not faltered despite starring in such films as Taxi and... well, Taxi, she owns every bit of her figure, and she is self-proclaimed royalty -- and nobody minds. I think it's awesome to see her flaunting her curves at a time when everyone just finished congratulating tiny people like Jessica Simpson and Hilary Duff and whomever else on kicking those 20 pounds they apparently so desperately needed to lose.

So what I'm saying is, I love La.

But, not in those shorts. Those are... they're slacks crossed with bermuda shorts. And they make her look stubby. Those are not shorts that Queen Latifah would wear to a party. Those are shorts that Dana Owens would wear to a work barbecue at the boss's house, where she will feign interest in her coworkers' kids and then back someone into a corner to discuss the latest tax estimates over a plate of potato salad. Which is also something I love. And I feel like it's being tainted by the shorts and the shirt and the stray bra straps, and the hair that's got a whiff of milkmaid about it. Oh, La. I've seen you do so much better. Keep the potato salad; ditch the rest.

It's not that we don't appreciate trends here at GFY HQ. I mean, without them, I might never have come around on cork wedges, leggings might never have stoked my righteous rage, and I wouldn't feel the calming touch of Intern George's hand on my overwrought forehead whenever I come to after a dress-over-pants combo vomits all over my consciousness.

But there's a difference between paying attention to and/or adopting trends, and wearing all of them at once lest ANY of them DARE to pass you by.

If she'd just traded the flats for some kicky heels and burned the leggings in the flame of my hate candles, this might have worked. Instead, somewhere in this country, an angry 8-year old is considering suing for fashion plagiarism.

NBC trotted out much of the cast of Friday Night Lights this week for the summer Television Critics Association press tour, presumably in the hope that the journalists would all find new ways to tell the world how awesome the show is, thereby eventually improving ratings and making me a far more pleasant person.

I'm always struck by what a talented cast it is. And what an attractive one. But, vitally, there's also some really good hair up in there. Check out Minka Kelly:

So shiny! So perfect for the sweet cheerleader who was briefly a cheater. It's like half-Buffy, half-Faith.

And then there's Adrienne Palicki's new bob:

Why can't my hair look cute like that when it's short, as opposed to as if I had thrown a toaster into my morning shower? I wonder if they will let her be that cute this season as the troubled town tramp (except not really, because she has a heart of gold and is -- as Whitney Houston once implored us all to do -- learning to love herself, which is the greatest love of all), or if she'll have to drabify herself a little to get back in Tyra's shoes. Yes, Tyra. It's strange to see a person on television named "Tyra" who does not also have a three-foot wig on her head, but that's no reason to flee from the show. You get used to it.

I might not get used to this, though:

Everybody! Head down to the pub! Drinks are on me! Zooey Deschanel IS NOT WEARING BLACK TIGHTS. I repeat, Zooey Deschanel IS NOT WEARING BLACK TIGHTS:

She seems to be saying, "And so I thought to myself, 'why NOT give fishnets a try?'"

To which I say, EXACTLY, Zooey, and bravo. Everybody loves a fishnet! And as a pale girl myself (this weekend, my neighbor tried to explain to me the concept of "a base tan." I countered by mentioning my family history of skin cancer and deep affection for dramatic sun hats and huge sunglasses), I feel quite strongly that more we see people running around with their naturally-hued legs sticking out of a mini (whatever that hue may be), the less likely it is that every single magazine in the world will decide to re-cycle that old Guide to Self-Tanner article each and every one of them runs every single June. WE KNOW. EXFOILIATE FIRST.  GOD, enough already.  And then we can concentrate on REAL issues, like how to get more volume in my hair.

PS: Zoo -- the dress looks cute, too, but it's hard to tell. I was just thinking yesterday that there comes a time in a woman's life when she probably needs to 86 the pigtails, but I'm so pleased with you otherwise, I'm just gonna let it slide.

And she's back! After a brief hiatus while she was dating John Mayer and simultaneously was accosted with my favorite headline ever, namely, "IT'S NOT A FAT SUIT," my nemesis Jessica Simpson is BACK.  (I like to have a nemesis at all times. For a while it was a woman I worked with [NOT HEATHER] who used to correct my grammar all the time, except she'd change it so that it was WRONG. Another time it was my landlord, who charged me for DEPRECIATION ON THE WASHING MACHINE. That ass. And then, of course, there was Paul Giamatti. HE KNOWS WHAT HE DID.) But Jessica Simpson is my favorite nemesis, because she's always doing totally dumb stuff.  Sure, I suppose it's exciting to have a brilliant, Lord Voldemort-y nemesis, because it challenges you and all that, but I'm lazy. It's so much easier to have a nemesis who's likely to hoist herself on her own petard. In fact, I suspect her petard is exactly what Jessica is hoisting in the cover shot below:

Why else would she have her arm all stuck up in the air like that, in what might be the most AWKWARD-looking cover I have EVER SEEN? The good people at Glossed Over (also not fans of this cover) swears that J Simp is holding a bundle of balloons, and I'm sure that's true. What's also true is that they appear to be about ready to rip her arm right out of its socket.  It doesn't even look like HER arm. Hell, it barely looks like AN arm. She looks like she just happened to wander in front of a narrow, flesh-colored pillar. (There's a dirty, easy joke in there, isn't there? I'll give you a moment to make it to yourself.) She also sort of looks like she's got fangs, a development I never noticed before. With the new darker hair and the new sharper teeth, is she a vampire now? And shouldn't that information be on the cover? Hell, I'd totally buy a magazine that promised "A Look Inside Jessica's Dark New Blood-Sucking World."

Everybody simmer down now! Surely there's a reason Liza Minnelli would wander out without pants on:

Like....she's clamoring to be the next host of Pants Off Dance Off. Or she's trying to win David Gest back. Or this is a REALLY BELATED homage to Barbra Streisand's sheer Oscar pants suit of 1969. Or it was a compromise reached only after a long angry argument with her doorman, who refused to let her leave the building without SOMETHING on under her tunic. "You're not 50 anymore, Liza," he told her. "You have to be more age appropriate now! Please, please, think of me. I have to see you coming and going, getting into and out of cars. Pants, I implore you. Please wear some pants." And so she stomped upstairs and said to herself, "FINE. YOU WANT PANTS. I'LL GIVE YOU SOME PANTS....technically speaking. MWHAHAHAHAHAH! " Those two. Can't they see they're in love with each other?

SETH: So, you guys, funny story... My brother dared me to wipe my face with an orange peel, right, and then I fell asleep in the sun, and then...

SETH: Um, what I mean is, he paid me $50 to drink 10 gallons of Sunny Delight, and...

SETH: Ha, just kidding, you guys are so gullible. What REALLY happened is the dog ate some, um, pumpkin, and then licked my face...

SETH: Oh, FINE, Samberg, you WIN, okay? You don't have a nice shirt to wear ANYWHERE, on ANY occasion, but you can't play along with me? WHATEVER. Look, all right, here it is: I USED TOO MUCH BRONZER -- like you can really judge sometimes, LORNE -- and now I look kind of psychedelic but you know what? SCREW YOU ALL. I do Weekend Update, bitches. I'm America's freaking SWEETHEART. And don't pretend to me that Fallon didn't have a day like this because I will NOT BELIEVE that pretty boy didn't preen, okay? You get me? DO YOU ALL GET ME?

SETH: Sorry, John -- er, Mr. Madden. I'm fine. It's going to be fine. I'm ready for some football. Go back to talking about tight ends getting pounded. I'll just be here hoping you don't mistake my face for a football.

Lizzie Grubman could be the nicest person in the entire universe and she'd still go down in history as The Hit-And-Run Queen, thanks to that little incident in the Hamptons where her SUV bumper made intimate contact with about 16 people, none of whom had given it permission to go to first base.

But, she just had a baby boy in December, and that's always very exciting; we were also pleased to note that as of February she still hadn't lost the baby weight, which is incredibly unusual in an industry where if you're not 10 pounds off your goal weight by six weeks after you pop, you're a freak.

Unfortunately, when she did lose the baby weight, she turned into a potential cover model for Man-Pecs Monthly.

Where did they go? I know she's been slim since prison, but seriously, I never looked at her in the past and wondered if her head was on backwards. The tank top is not helping, as it gives off the appearance that she ironed her chest before heading out for the day. Where did she leave her mammaries? Is this part of the whole post-partum thing, having your hormones out of whack and you turn forgetful and realize that you might have left your breasts back in March?

Please, Lizzie, chow down. There are so many wonderful things made with lovely, hearty flour. Cookies and cakes and crisp apple strudels; lasagna and French bread and schnitzel with noodles; beer-battered cod with potato shoestrings -- these should be a few of your favorite things.

So get on it, is what I'm saying. Don't make me rhyme in vain.

P.S. Are those shoes comfortable? Because the last two little piggies on your left foot seem like they don't quite fit in the sty.

DEAN: Top o' the mornin' to ye, lassie!

TORI: That's "Reverend" lassie to you, dude.

DEAN: Aye, but that doesn't work as well with my Scottish persona. I'm Dean McDermott of the... you know, Scottish McDermotts!

TORI: You were born in Canada. I'm just saying.

DEAN:  Aye, but I'm wearing our family tartan!

TORI: It's just black.

DEAN: Aye. Like our ENEMIES' HEARTS.

TORI: And it's not plaid. It's not even a kilt. It's an old skirt you found in the back of my closet.

DEAN: Aye, but with the white of my shirt...

TORI: Which, by the way, I'm pretty sure is supposed to be tucked in...

DEAN: ... it stands for PURITY amid PESTILENCE.

TORI: Sure. And did your ancestors wear matching hiking boots, too?

DEAN: Aye, when they traversed the moors.

TORI: Whatever. Listen, put that skirt back where you found it, okay? I wanted to wear it. But instead, thanks to you, I'm stuck wearing this thing that makes me look kind of like I tried to tailor a muumuu.

DEAN: Aye, madam, 'tis most kind of you to let me do my duty by keeping the Scottish tradition alive in this town! Long live the McDermotts, the McGregors, the McConnerys; the Minerva McGonagalls, the Cho McChangs!

TORI: You know what? "Aye" am going to smack you upside the head.

DEAN: Maybe we can buy Old MacDonald's farm for our next inn project.

TORI: Oh my GOD.

You'd think Cosmo could have found a shot of Julia Stiles in which she wasn't making a "What the hell? I'm leaning against this wall anyway; guess I might as well pose for Cosmo. Hurry up and take the picture, though" face.

You'd also think they'd run out of "Sex Extras," tips on how to "be closer to him," and stories about girls who got killed in a way that will probably ALSO HAPPEN TO YOU if you don't read the article, but that's apparently not the case.

However, I do have to give them props for juxtaposing the triad of "Her Boyfriend Killed Her For Breaking Up With Him" right next to "Why He Just Won't Propose,"  and  "Guys Uncensored: Their Get-Naked Fears Will Make You Laugh Out Loud."  Maybe he doesn't want to marry you because you're laughing at him when he's naked, honey.  That could make anyone feel a little bit homicidal.

Back in April, I was in Vegas with my father, and as we left Tao after a really divine dinner (I recommend the duck egg rolls; they are crispy bliss) there were packs and packs of paparazzi photographers rabidly snapping pictures of Kim Kardashian -- and, it seemed, only Kim Kardashian -- on a makeshift red carpet. They went wild. My father's brow furrowed.

"Who is that?" my father asked, a sort of repulsed, confused grimace on his face.

"Her name is Kim Kardashian," I said, as she preened.

"NEVER HEARD OF HER. Has she DONE anything?"

"Well... there's her dad and the O.J. thing, but otherwise... I think she... I have no idea."

"Hmmmmm," he intoned, looking bored and shooting a deeply unimpressed look at all the hoo-ha.

That pretty much sums it up for me. I seriously am not sure how Kim Kardashian came to be a celebrity. She showed up at parties somewhere in the vicinity of Paris, I think, and then sniffed around Nick Lachey back when he was America's Sad, Tenderhearted Bachelor Who Hankered For The Touch Of A Nice Woman. There was some lunacy with a photo in which it appeared she'd stuffed ostrich eggs into the seat of her pants. I'm not sure; I looked away. But basically, in the blink of a smoky eye, she was all over the scene like Paris on a Bible: visually jarring, not terribly genuine-looking, and reeking of desperation. And I have no idea what she actually does.

Well, besides show up at stuff dressed in whatever is most likely to get her boobs in the tabloids, or get her a free trip to Vegas under some poor hotel manager's delusions that she's a nightclub act. How that thing is managing to prop up her boobs while simultaneously looking about two inches from sliding off of them is a mystery that has me wondering if I really MIGHT have had a practical reason to take AP Physics.

Luckily, Kim isn't one to keep secrets.

So, Jaslene, I realize that when you won the last cycle of America's Next Top Model, people said you looked either a) like a drag queen, b) like Janice Dickinson, or c) like a drag queen impersonating Janice Dickinson.

To which I respond:

a) Not without lipstick, bigger hair, and some... er... support in that thong;

b) Not when you wear a leash;

c) Not when your nipples are the only lively thing about you.

Seriously, a resemblance is all very well and good, and presumably -- at least based on what I saw on the show -- "Dragalicious" and "Janice" are pretty much What You Do. And if that's the way it's gonna be, well, Jaslene, take note: Janice only gives it away for free if she's actively posing for photographers while yanking her skirt up over her head, or tumbling out of her top because mere pathetic fabric can't contain the nip of the Alpha Dog. Say what you will about her sanity, but if she wants to burn every last private fold of her body onto your retinas, she will DO IT and DO the HELL out of it. There is no false modesty. Your thin cotton peep show would offend the part of her that thinks you had no built-up mystique to ruin AND the part of her that believes areolas are best served at parties.

Now, I'm not suggesting you need to follow her example; just that you're at a crossroads. Either put it away for a little bit until you've earned the right to be functionally insane if you want to be, or go balls-to-the-wall like the World's First Supermodel and own the fact that you'd like all your Jays to be public domain. But this? This just feels weird and wrong, like you're the cover of a really pervy novel in the little-served "fantasy bodice-ripper" genre, and all the creatures on your skirt are seeking to sup on your inner beast. Which... ew.

Why Sitting on a Tall Stool In a Mini-Skirt Holding a Tee-Shirt-Wearing Dog Makes for an Awkward Photo Op by Miss Hilary Duff:

And if you enjoyed that, please pick up the sequel: How It Is Surprising Hilarious When The Poof on the Front of Your Dress Makes It Look Like Your Dog Is Wearing An Elaborate Neck-Bonnet of Some Sort.

It was nice to see Dedee Pfeiffer come out of the woodwork to celebrate her sister Michelle's return to the big screen. It's more than hubby David E. Kelley managed. Although maybe he was buried at home under piles of Boston Legal scripts hand-scribbled on yellow legal paper with "Mr. and Mr. James Spader" written in the margins and then crossed out and tear-stained, or perhaps he was too tired from trying to create a soundtrack to his own life that would add record-scratches at all shocking, amusing, poignant, slapstick, or furious moments. We'll never know.

[Okay, just kidding, apparently we do know -- he was there and I seriously just COMPLETELY missed him in all the pictures, which I guess is what you get for having a hot wife, although there are other advantages. Like her hotness.]

Anyhoo, Dedee Pfeiffer looks cute, right?

I love those boots -- very sexy. And the dress is simple but flattering, somehow both fun and young yet still age-appropriate.

Oh, except... yeah, this is where David E.'s beloved record scratch comes into play.

So, there's this brilliantly terrible show on TLC called I've Got Nothing To Wear, in which a "celebrity" "stylist" I've never heard of goes through a person's closet, pulls out all their awful clothes, and takes it back to a tiny room where three "design prodigies" are waiting to turn all the junk into six brand-new outfits (two each, one for day and one for evening) -- all under the guise of a "master" designer whose claim to fame is working at the Fashion Institute of Technology by day, hawking wares on QVC by night, having nothing interesting to say, and sporting the most frightening plastic surgery on a man since Kenny Rogers. (Sorry about all the quotation marks, but seriously, the show's budget is like $5, so I'm dubious about all these claims -- especially when one of the "design prodigies" used his three days to glue scraps of fabric to a mannequin and then go home early to watch cartoons. I'm not kidding. He could not wait to get out of there. Although he may also have been from space. It's unclear.)

It's actually kind of a good concept for a show, except for the aforementioned fact that it's executed on the cheap and without anyone worth caring about on it (now, if Tim Gunn were there, it would be a different story, but he is too magnificent for a $5 show). But seriously, half the time, the new outfits are just as hideous as the old ones, like, say, the thick wool romper made from an old cream overcoat and, I think, bits of a pair of jeans. And it's amusing watching the person who owns the clothes try to choke back on her rising bile when she sees what's happened to them.

All of which, of course, brings me around to the Pussycat Dolls.

Because the more I see them, the more I feel like all their costumes were spit out by the I've Got Nothing To Wear chop shop by some blind, drunk, and blind-drunk prodigies with a glue-gun fetish. Note the conspicuous absence of Asia, the horrible winner of The Pussycat Dolls Present: Yada Yada Yada, New Band Member. Either she didn't work out so well, or she's terrified of wearing anything that's held together by staples and scotch tape. Man, she dodged a bullet.

I can't quite decide if I like Diane Kruger's dress here or not:

Pro: she's very pretty in white.
Con: it's a bit shapeless.
Pro: but it's kind of ethereal.
Con: but those look like a giant bra straps.
Pro: but they're clearly not.
Con: but it would look better if it continued to be fitted just a hair further down her rib cage
Pro: but she's kind of working it.
Con: but is it knitted or something at the bodice?
Pro: but she's really well-accessorized. Look:

US Weekly reported yesterday that Kelly Clarkson recently told Reader's Digest regarding her wardrobe that, back in her AI days, "[I'd] be in a magazine under the heading 'What Was She Thinking?' I was like, I'm thinking I ain't got no money." And I have to admit that when I read this, I might have thought to myself, "but babe, what's your excuse NOW?"

However, that was before I saw La Clarkson -- who you know I seriously do love.  I really honestly do.  I know she dresses like she just doesn't give a shit half the time (and she probably doesn't), but I think she's really talented and she's totally ballsy in interviews and I basically just want to go out for drinks with her and get accidentally smashed on too-strong margaritas and then stumble back to her house and clean out her closet -- at the ESPY awards:

How cute is she? I wish I had access to a photo that didn't cut her off right at the calves, but I promise you, the shoes are cute, too. She just looks adorable -- that color is good on her, and the whole thing has a sort of 50s-retro-glam aura that works very nicely with her figure. I also sort of feel like, should I run into this mid-drunken-closet-clean-out, I would be tempted to try it on and twirl around in it, which is high praise for a party dress indeed.

I have not yet watched General Hospital: Night Shift, the GH spin-off that's currently airing on SOAPnet, although sources tell me that Billy Dee Williams is on it! This is exciting to me for reasons I can't quite pinpoint -- maybe I have unresolved Lando Calrissian issues? At any rate, I feel like I don't watch General Hospital very often, but of course I am aware that it features or has featured BOTH Luke and Laura  AND Dr. Rick Springfield, and every time I read a synopsis of something that's happened in the last five years, I find myself thinking, "oh, I totally remember when that happened to Carly!" In other words, GH watchers, I get where you're coming from, I salute you, and I suspect I may have a televisual version of that thing people get where they eat in their sleep, except I'm watching soap operas. Anyway, I hear from reliable sources that GH:NS is sort of entertaining, but what I want to know is why no one realized that they accidentally replaced Kimberly McCullough, who plays Dr. Robin Scorpio (who, Wikipedia tells me, not only originated the role as a child, but also sang back-up on "Toy Soldiers" by Martika[!!]) with Jennifer Love Hewitt. Behold:

The GH:NS ads:

Versus everyone's favorite Ghost Whisperer:

I mean, it's fairly obvious that J Lo Hew's got  Kimberly McCullough locked away in a cage in a mine shaft while she takes over her life so as to enact some terrible revenge because they're secretly twins who've been kept apart their whole lives and J Lo Hew is tired of people coming up to her and a) asking her about Bailey b) asking if she can tell their dead grandmother hello c) starting sentences with the phrase, "well, I don't know about you, but I CAN'T HARDLY WAIT...."

Frankly, I can't believe no one has caught onto this yet, but I just hope J Lo Hew will find herself so busy with wig wrangling when the next season of Ghost Whisperer goes into production that she lets poor Kimberly out.

If you haven't seen Step Up, you must. I can not think of a better film about a vandal turned janitor turned dancer, and I mean that quite sincerely.  It is a treat. I also recommend, if your livers are strong, to also treat it as a drinking game, and take a sip every time Rachel Griffiths -- as the stern headmaster of the performing arts academy -- delivers a line that trails off into silence and near incomprehensibility at the end. It's a weird character choice. I mean, I know she doesn't talk that way all the time. Why she decided that a line like, "And you say that he can dance?" ought to be delivered, "AND you say that he can dance ?" is beyond me. But it is hilarious.

At any rate, it's a fun little movie, and Jenna Dewan and Channing Tatum are quite likable in it. Which is why I'm so sad that Jenna thought it would be fun to wear a dress made of a hundred squashed non-dairy creamer serving thimbles. Jenna, those are to be emptied and re-used as trash cans for your doll house. Not worn. God.

Jamie-Lynn Sigler is a lovely woman with a great figure and traditionally, I love corset-y dresses and who doesn't like purple, right? So this should have worked out so much better than it did:

Seriously -- so close!  Unfortunately, there's something about the janky hem that screams "My assistant taped this up with left-over boob tape in the limo on the way over!" Coupled with the fact that satin is a cruel, dangerous mistress who will bitch-slap you just for looking at her and then further punish you by wrinkling exactly where you don't want to be wrinkled, La Sigler sadly looks a bit like she just rolled out of bed. And while this would be one very sexy nightie, it looks a bit too unkempt for public consumption, a little bit too "Cherry Chastity is booked tonight. Can I interest you in another one of our girls?", especially when paired with her very nice hair and make-up. However, things could always be worse. See the girl in the macramé behind her?

Oh, Rachael Leigh Cook, please don't try so hard to squeeze a hacky "She's NOT All That" crack out of me.

If you're going to INSIST on wearing pants that are way too short and poorly cut, then you should at least try not to shove your hand in the pocket so that my eye is drawn straight to where it's least flattering, and also endeavor not to pair it with a shirt whose ruffles hang like entrails right down in front of where the pants pull on your crotch.

But I'd PREFER to buy a ticket for the morning Crazy Train and suggest that you not wear crappy pants at ALL. Please love yourself more than that. Because even though I can't watch She's All That any more due to one particularly nauseating cafeteria scene that always leaves me hallucinating the feeling of hair in my throat, you are still a very important part of one of the premiere silly teen movies. That kind of legacy deserves proper trousers, don't you think?

Somebody really ought to make a fashion book called If I Wanted To Be Your Gyno, I'd Have Amassed Massive Med-School Debt. Chapter 1 could be Natalia Vodianova, and you could call it, "Extra Acreage: Why Minidresses Don't Hang The Same On a Pregnant Stomach."

On the plus side, if I hear that if you correctly guessed the sex of the baby by the end of the night, you won Swarovski crystal sperm.

I have to say, I am kind of relieved that I don't know if this is AJ or Aly Michalka. In fact, I'm relieved that I had to look up the girls' last name. Sometimes I worry that my extensive knowledge of Dynasty and Sweet Valley High plots, as well as my ability to draw a flow-chart of  young Hollywood's boyfriend swapping and a complete understanding of the evolution of Nicole Richie's hair, has taken over parts of my brain that used to hold the Pythagorean theorem and obscure facts about the Bubonic Plague (I used to be obsessed with The Plague. I was a weird kid.) But I have totally no idea what this girl does, other than appear on Disney Channel thingies and sing (?), and that's kind of a good thing.

I think our feelings about dresses over pants is well documented, so I'm going to ignore that and just ask you: why on earth would you wear a dress, and jeans, and BOOTS when it's like a kajillion degrees in New York and you could just...wear a dress and sandals and be comfortable AND cute? Let's not even address the...Converse All-Star belt? Because I'm too old to even think about that.

Also, honey,  are you flashing us a peace sign or throwing out a gang sign? Make up your mind.

If this were a soap opera, I would assume someone had dumped acid on Elle MacPherson's dress and that, despite the fact it was being slowly eaten, she wore it anyway just to spite the person who smote her with the beaker of poison. Because that's what you do on a soap opera -- you smite, you spite. Plus, it's way more believable than, say, the idea that a woman known as "The Body" would wear something that a) corrupts it into something unremarkable, and b) looks like it was designed by that evil goop from Spider-Man 3.

Maybe it got Valentino while he was sketching. Seriously, that thing is a mess.

On the up side, though, with that hairdo she could totally pass as Katherine Heigl's mother on Grey's Anatomy. Best update your resume, Elle.

"Hey guys, it's me! Tara Reid!

Do you like the new me? I've just entered my Grey Gardens period. I did the Sweet Ingenue thing, then I did the Drunky Mess, and then I did the boob-flashing -- way before any of these other dumb girls, thank you very much -- then I did the I'm So Sorry About The Drunk Boob Flashing, Hear Me Wail About My Bad Plastic Surgery thing, and now I'm moving into Quirky and Covered Up Headscarf-Lover. Kind of a little bit Mary-Kate, with a dash of Arden Wohl and a hint of Grandma! And sure, unlike Mary Kate, Arden and Nana, it doesn't seem like a look I've entirely come up with all on my own, like I probably didn't wake up one morning and think, "I need more things tied around my head," unless I was dreaming about how I can't keep my hair on. But it's less predictable than those other personas, and at least I'm all covered up and sort of adult looking, finally, right? Right? I think so. Now, I just need to date a sort of brooding, brainy shipping heir to squire me around, and I'll be set! See you inside -- I hear there's an open bar!"

MICHELLE: I just love this girl.

AMANDA: Hi Michelle.

MICHELLE: Looooooooooooooooove this girl.

AMANDA: You look... what is that smell on your breath?

MICHELLE: At first I thought it was weird that you're tangerine-colored. But now I LOOOOOOVE it.

AMANDA: You... okay.

MICHELLE: Because I don't get NEARLY enough Vitamin C and you're like a clementine with legs and I could just walk up and take a BITE.

AMANDA: Look, we don't know each other that well...

MICHELLE: Or just stick a straw right in you and suck it up. LOVE IT. Give me some of that brown sugar!

AMANDA: Could somebody please close the open bar?

Carmen Electra looks as she always does: Typical short dress, typical middle part, typical heels...

... typical lopsidedness. I don't know who coached her to pose for photos like she's Quasimodo's long-lost sister, but that person needs his or her ears boxed. Not only does it make the dress look more boring, but come on: This is Carmen freaking Electra. Unless she actually is holding a 20-lb. dumbbell in her left hand, she has no need to duck her head and hunch and play shy and knock her knees together. I know that's a common red-carpet trick, but seriously, when deployed in conjunction with every other way she's shrinking herself, it just looks like she forgot to go to the bathroom before she left the house.

Don't wear your bladder on your sleeve, Carmen. Work the garment and work your assets; both will look better for it. After all, a spine is often one's best accessory. Although in this case I'd settle for a neck.

Here at GFY HQ, we love us some minor British celebrities -- chief among them the WAGs, a.k.a. wives and girlfriends of the country's footballers. They're covered like major celebrities but, with the exception of a few of the big dogs like Posh, have all the charisma and fashion sense of a Peldon.

One such WAG is Coleen McLoughlin, childhood sweetheart and fiance of phenom (and rumored brothel-lover, although we prefer to believe in wuv, twoo wuv) Wayne Rooney. According to Wikipedia -- and if you read it on the Internet, it HAS to be true -- Coleen has a column in a magazine of some kind, but mostly makes money off being a spokesperson, and is famous for shopping sprees and tanning and going on holiday. [And for forgiving Wayne for whatever indiscretion the tabloids claim he's committed. Which, let's face it, makes sense. The kid seems charming. A rake, yes, but charming. In his autobiography, Wayne Rooney: The Story So Far (which, despite the help of a writer, is kind of inept) he reveals that he knows all the words to every song in Oliver! and likes to sing it at top volume. Fun at parties!]

Ahem. Anyway. For somebody who's longed to be in fashion and own her fame, I'm surprised Coleen didn't dress a little more carefully at the unveiling of her eponymous perfume.

If you love shopping so much, Col, then grab Lily Allen and go with her -- she could've picked you out a nice girly dress for the occasion. I don't think I'm going out on a limb here saying that maybe, just maybe, that's not the most flattering tank top on her, and not just because it's giving us all a peek at her bra.

Although she did deflect some attention by gluing that bizarre wad of fabric scraps to her hip. It reminds me of those tissue-paper flowers that were popular arts-and-crafts projects in the 80s. What statement is this supposed to make, exactly? That her perfume smells like old fake flowers? That buying her scent is like having your very own floral hip tumor every single day? That she thinks Martha Stewart Living is a fashion magazine?

Melissa Joan Hart was good enough to allow herself to be made an example of Why The Maxi-Dress (parenthetically, I love that term. It's so 60s, like "sanitary napkin belt") Is Hard to Pull Off:

It looks COMFORTABLE, and I sort of want a longer sun-type dress for noodling around the house and running errands and throwing over my bathing suit before going to the beach, since I'm sure they're nice and cool, but if you're short and have boobs, unless they're really fitted at the ribcage you just look like you're modeling Mrs Roper's house dress. I know this because I spent twenty minutes at the Gap this weekend trying on a maxi-dress that was on sale, before realizing that, from the side, I looked like I was due in September.  WHICH I AM NOT.

I mean, I'll probably still buy one, because I am secretly a total trend-whore (don't tell anyone. The only thing I've been able to resist are leggings. Okay, and tiny vests. And Uggs. And formal shorts. But I'm otherwise very susceptible, is what I'm saying). But I might regret it later. God, I'm really over-sharing today, aren't I? I'm just going to stop talking now.

The coverage of the Harry Potter kids has been out of control lately -- which  makes sense, given that the most recent of the films opens this weekend, and the final book comes out on the 21st (not that I've had that marked on my calendar since February or anything). And, with only a few be-feathered mis-steps, Emma Watson's mostly been looking adorable in Chanel at all the various associated events. Which is why she needs to sue Parade magazine for dressing her in this:

Unless I blacked out during a section of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in which Hermione decided to chuck the whole wizarding thing and become a winsome tap-dancing orphan, this just makes no sense at all. I get the books -- since Hermione is brainy -- but what's with the top hat? She's not a MAGICIAN. She's a WIZARD. It's DIFFERENT.

Although I don't know why I'm all that surprised. Parade magazine is noteworthy mostly because it's so bad (sorry, Parade staffers. It's not your fault. I blame the crappy newsprint you're forced to work with). When I was a kid, my mother would read the Letters From the Readers section every weekend and get enraged because all the questions therein were SO STUPID and clearly chosen/faked because the person charged with answering said letters had some kind of beef he really wanted to passive-aggressively address that week. Like, one of them would be all, "Dear Parade, Could you please explain to me why every young actress in Hollywood today is a PANTY-LESS WHOOOOORE? When I was young, our actresses WERE PARAGONS OF VIRTUE. I AM APPALLED."  (This would run like three years after the panty-free fad had passed, of course.) And the answer would be like, "I WISH I KNEW. You are so right, reader. The youth of today DISGUST ME and I WEEP FOR THE FUTURE. It's the fault of all those dirty hippies who had children in the 70s. LOOK TO THE GREATEST GENERATION FOR GUIDANCE."  And then after my mother would complain about how Parade Magazine is totally out of touch, my father would complain about Marilyn Vos Savant ("she's clearly a fraud. What is the likelihood that the person with the world's highest IQ is named SAVANT?") and then we'd all eat pancakes.

Great, now I want pancakes. Thanks a lot, Parade.

"No, I'm DEAD SERIOUS, you guys-- when the mad scientist landed the DeLorean, we were in the year 2112, and you would not BELIEVE how well it all turns out. Our national anthem is Paris Hilton's dance-hall remix of 'The Cell-Block Tango.' Europe is rich beyond your imagination because it collected millions from the rest of the world in exchange for honorary berths in the Eurovision Song Contest. My face had been added to Mount Rushmore, because a prank broadcast of the 'Justify My Love' video on Al Jazeera accidentally brought about world peace. The ENTIRE army wears these wicked corset-vests because Death By Cracked Rib is the only disease science hasn't cured. We solved the energy crisis by manufacturing only clothes made of shiny, stretchy, insta-drying material like my leggings, which are also bulletproof and clean up after themselves, and we've learned how to breed new universes by injecting them into our bodies and incubating them in our bloodstream, which is why my veins are so bulging you could lace your shoes with them. Oh, and you should SEE how they've revolutionized the penis -- show them, Codpiece darling."

I know this particular dress is (presumably) Valentino, and that this isn't the first time I've seen it (not that I can remember who got fugged in it previously, but I assume the poor girl is still kind of annoyed with me. Sorry, stranger, but I'm sure you're just really lovely and I only want the best for you**).

It sort of neatly illustrates for me the concept that high fashion doesn't always = AWESOME.  You know that old saying, "she'd look good in a barrel"? It's certainly true for Claudia Schiffer here, and, frankly, I think she'd have been better off in one.

**Emails inform me this was Sela Ward. Which goes to show that I was right: Sela Ward IS lovely and I DO want the best for her.

Zhang Ziyi wore the yellow tutu tier to the Oscars; now, designer Tory Burch gets her sloppy seconds.

And still, even in re-runs, I can't look at this dress without feeling stern cravings for a nice thick slab of lemon wedding cake. Man Candy optional.

"Oh, shit," Fergie thinks, mid-song.

"I'm still wearing those pleated denim bloomers, aren't I? This is almost as bad as the time I...well, let's not bring that up again."

Sarah Jessica Parker apparently got stuck honoring Valentino's Upholstery Era.

That jacket seems to have started life as an ode to Tudor-era fashions, and then veered off into something Fraulein Maria might have made from a bedspread and given to Joan Collins. You could hide a LOT of South China Sea oil leases up those sleeves, not to mention a stash of caviar for stressful times and a couple flutes of champagne.

Cameron Diaz spent most of her I'm Over You, Justin Timberlake, And Everyone Please Also See My New Movie Shrek  World Tour looking pretty great. And while I get that it was really hot at Live Earth here, and that a concert is naturally a casual event, there's something about this outfit that is less I'm Over You and I Look Awesome and a lot Bitchy 8th Grader Addressing Her Fellow Cheer Camp Attendees:

"Listen, you guys, the next person who drops the Spirit Stick gets KP for a week, I seriously mean it. And to the person who put those garter snakes in my bunk, I am totally going to find out who you are and you are going to be seriously so, so sorry.  I mean it. You're dead. Okay, guys! That's it! Have an awesome day!"

While I agree that we should save the future (as well as the whales, and Ferris), or perhaps Go Back to it, if things go awry with our families or if our mad scientist mentor needs saving from terrorists, but there's something about K.T Tunstall's outfit that's distracting me from her message:

I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

My old pal Google tells me that Daphne Guinness' name is not just a coincidence, and she is in fact a beer heiress. Lucky girl. If I were a beer heiress I would totally make up business cards for myself and pass them out to everyone I met, because that's the best title I can think of (alongside that Banana Republic pants campaign where they made fake newspaper headlines about trends that included the words, "Chief Pants Officer") and I would want to brag.

Evidently, Daphne has a history of incredibly kooky, colorful personal style that, for me, verges on masterfully insane. She has an ensemble for every part she could possibly play in the Las Vegas Showgirl Circus, and if we cloned her and opened that very show with all of them, that would be one hell of an evening.

Perhaps Cruella De Vil could emcee.

Suggestion for Sienna Miller: THIS crazy makeup would actually look better than what you were wearing. So consider making Blow The Froth Off A Couple Cold Ones: The Daphne Guinness Story your next biopic. You could totally pass, and it'd give you a chance to try out fingerless gloves and 1,000 rings for yourself, which I'm sure you're dying to try and pull off.

Say what you will about Sienna Miller's taste in clothes; she's still a really cute girl. In fact, her face is usually the thing that works about what she's wearing -- as in, "Why is such a pretty girl wearing a moldy old tarp that's probably caked in refuse?"

Ergo, it's distressing to see that for her trip to Rome, she chose to hire a box of crayons to do her makeup.

I know that for a big event honoring Valentino's life's work, she is probably required to wear something by Valentino. But frankly, Penelope Cruz at this year's Oscars kind of ruined me on dresses with dramatic feathery skirts. Hers was elegant and fanciful; by comparison, this one looks like somebody stole a red spandex number from the closet of one of my grade 9 classmates and finished the skirt by sewing on the skin of 100 Tickle Me Elmo dolls. Eye-catching, yes, but also potentially disturbing to small children.

But generally, I'm not looking at the dress, because I'm trying so hard to decide which of Crayola's many glorious brown shades -- Raw Sienna? Chestnut? Antique Brass? Or plain old Brown? -- she decided to use as her eyebrow pencil. It's a tad overwhelming. She just doesn't quite look like herself, as if this is her overly shiny and apple-cheeked wax replica, posed awkwardly as if she's ushering tourists into Madame Tussaud's Hall of Questionable Talent.

So, here's what I'm wondering. Should Jewel be worried that cute little Hayden Panettiere is about to swoop in and Single White Female her whole life without anyone noticing, or should Hayden be concerned that Jewel, at 33, looks young and fresh enough that she might start stealing her parts?

I just need to know how to feel.

ZAC EFRON: THIS GUY!!!!

ELIJAH KELLEY: Uh... yeah, hey there, Zac.

ZAC:  THIS GUY! THIS is the GUY!

ELIJAH: Sure. You too, buddy. Hey, I've been meaning to ask you...

ZAC: LISTEN TO THE HUMOR ON THAT GUY!

ELIJAH: I haven't even said anything yet.

ZAC: I LOVE this guy. He is THE GUY.

ELIJAH: Seriously, listen, this has been bothering me for a while now. Is this just how you look naturally, or do you actually wear four tons of stage makeup every time you leave the house?

ZAC: The WORLD is my STAGE! I am the musical star of the DECADE! First High School Musical and now this, and then the sequel!

ELIJAH: Okay... well, don't get too close. I look pretty sharp in this eggplant color and I don't want any of that rubbing off on the fabric.

ZAC: MOVE OVER, TOMMY TUNE! But not too far. I think we could do great work together. With THIS GUY as a background dancer!

ELIJAH: That's... that's great, thanks a lot, Zac. Just a tip, though -- you might want to dial it down a little. Maybe scrape off the war paint, and change up your hair so doesn't always look like somebody dropped it onto your head from a 60-story building. If you're not careful, you're going to...

ZAC: Can you DIG IT, AMERICA? THIS MAN IS EXTRAORDINARY. AND SO AM I.

ELIJAH: ... turn into Tom Cruise.

ZAC: PASS THE FLOWBEE ON THE LEFT-HAND SIDE!

ELIJAH: Forget it.

"... And then it hit me: Turn my Louis Vuitton jewelry roll into SHORTS so that I can wear ALL my necklaces at once! I KNOW, RIGHT?!?

"Right? Guys? Are you looking? Are you? Aren't they great?... Guys? Anyone?"

You read all kinds of stuff about how Lily Allen is an alcoholic,  is not an alcoholic, loves alcoholics, eats alcoholics for breakfast, yadda yadda yadda and while no one loves juicy, unsubstantiated gossip more than I do, at this point, I'm sort of like, "who cares? Let the girl have a tipple, and then maybe she'll tell me where she gets her frocks":

I'll float her bar tab all week in exchange for stealing this little number.

Who else but our girl Phoebe Price would slap on a cowboy hat and call her friendly neighborhood paparazzi to let them know that she was planning on forcing her lawyer to explain a subpoena to her in front of the cameras, at what looks like The Grove, a Los Angeles shopping mall?

I know I like to have my lawyer go over any legal materials he may need to run past me in the dressing room at Anthropologie, so who am I to judge? (Please note: she's not being sued or anything juicy,  she's being asked, it seems,  to turn over video of some promotional yadda yadda she did for something or other. To be honest with you, once I found out that she wasn't being summoned to testify in some scandalous trial, I sort of lost interest.)

But while there's something deliciously desperate and tacky about tipping off the paps as to your legal shenanigans (please, like anyone would believe the paps were following P Squared to the Crate and Barrel and just happened upon this), and you know her cute lawyer/the actor portraying her lawyer/this random dude she just pulled out of Crate and Barrel to pretend to be her lawyer is doing this while thinking, "Damn. This is so embarrassing. I hope no one I went to law school with/went to acting school with/went into Crate and Barrel with sees this," this little publicity stunt did give us one thing that we'll treasure forever:

Amy Pearson, it seems, is an Australian pop star of some sort. Having listened to her single on her MySpace, she sounds a bit like....Kelly Clarkson as reinterpreted by Hilary Duff.  Needless to say, it might be hard to concentrate on her sound when she's showing up places dressed like a grape as reinterpreted by a wedding planner:

It's always so sad when a cute girl is cruelly hacked down by vindictive fruit.

On Tuesday, before we took a little hiatus to listen to watch the Back To The Future marathon on HBO celebrate our nation's birthday, Jessica noted that Helena Bonham Carter needs a hot-oil treatment and some detangler, stat.

Once we saw the whole dress, we realized her coif is but one of her problems.

The poor thing seems to have been chased by dementors all the way to the premiere. I believe one of them even vomited bits of Little Bo Peep's soul all over her before she got away.

Assuming she did get away, that is: Those children behind her appear alarmed about something beyond just her muddled tailoring, almost as if they are desperately nervous their first kisses are about to come from a black-hooded fun-vacuum. Maybe they're worried Helena brought one of them as her date.

Thandie Newton is hot. Her dress is fab. Her shoes are grand.

So it's really a shame about the tragic accident that ate her hands. At the very least, you'd think she'd go out and get herself a cool hook:

Also, Thandie, because you are British, maybe you don't know that the These Overly Long Sleeves Ate My Extremities look was pioneered and owned by one Jennifer Love Hewitt, circa her stint on Party of Five, which solely consisted of her pulling her sweater sleeves over her hands nervously and telling Bailey that she was really concerned about his drinking. And while God knows we are all about J.Lo.Hew and her false eyelashes around these parts, you're about ten years too late on this particular bandwagon. Push up them sleeves!

I do love a classic, clean trench -- there's something very romantic about it, especially in a European setting, as if Anne is moments away from realizing she doesn't truly want to be with her potentially shady boyfriend, and instead wants to run through the streets of Paris searching for the lowly bike messenger with the heart of gold (and conveniently, pecs of steel) that she accidentally fell in love with during some electric banter at a crepe stand near The Louvre. And she'll spring into action to find him, and run and run and run like Ruprecht in the countryside until she arrives by his side at their special park bench, her hair beautifully disheveled and her cheeks flushed and her feet devoid of blisters and nary a drop of sweat tainting her skin. Because that's how romance works. At least, in the music video that's constantly playing in my head.

Alas, instead of bolting in her trenchcoat, Anne took it off.

Dear Helena Bonham Carter,

There is so much about you that I love. You are very well-cast as wackadoo Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange in the Harry Potter films, and who didn't adore you in A Room With a View, with all the kissing in fields and spirited breaking up that you did? But why why why are you allowing yourself to be styled like a demon water sprite?

This is not good.  You look mildly-to-moderately dead, and also like you styled your hair using mud and an immersion blender. And it's not like you don't know how to pull out all the stops:

So, here's the thing. Mischa Barton is quite lovely, without any help from anyone. So why did British Elle feel the need to Photoshop her into looking like an entirely different woman?

I mean, this lady is very pretty, too, but she looks sort of like she might be Mischa's older cousin, who was once fresh and promising but who suffered a traumatic failed love affair with a quasi-royal man who promised her marriage in exchange for the pleasures of her body, but who then promptly left her to marry a less attractive but more highly born woman to whom he'd secretly been betrothed for years.  And instead of just pulling herself up by her bootstraps and getting an incredibly glamourous job as, say, a model/photographer/ad copywriter and making him regret his treatment of her for all the days of his life, this Mischa just sunk lower and lower into a downward spiral, becoming a high-class escort, then a sort of mid-class escort, then getting addicted to something that's bad for you but doesn't totally ruin your looks, and then dying in, like, a fire started by one of her Cigarettes of Tragedy. In other words, THIS woman is a secondary character in a Judith Krantz novel, the one who's having all the kinky sex but who is also sort of weak-willed and unhappy. While the actual Mischa Barton is obviously a primary character in a Judith Krantz novel, the one who bounces back from terrible treatment at the hands of a handsome but douchey man by growing ever stronger and maybe just a little bit emotionally stunted, but in a way that a handsome, non-douchey man can break through in order to love her that much more perfectly. Catch a clue, British Elle.

PS: Nice bracelets. Presumably you can also use them as weights.

EMMA: Well. Nice to see you've upped your game, Katie.

KATIE: Somebody had to give you a run for your money, and it wasn't going to be Rupert.

EMMA: Pity you copied my shoes, though.

KATIE: At least mine aren't dyed to match. Lucky for you, no one can tell in this light. Try to stay out of direct sun, though.

EMMA: I suppose I'm happy for you that you look so nice. After all, it's not like you have a very important part in any of this from now on.

KATIE: Which is fine with me. If being the lead actress means I'm wearing... what are those? Armpit bracelets? -- then I think I'm fine with being a supporting player.

EMMA: I'm being progressive. I play the best witch in the school. I've got to be daring.

KATIE: With armpit bracelets? Do they time-release some deodorant?

EMMA: Nah. I tried, but it turns out my wand is only a prop.

KATIE: Oh well. Listen, other than that, you actually do look rather pretty. You almost make them work.

EMMA: You're a peach, Katie. Thanks. We ARE kind of adorable.

KATIE: Should we go torture Daniel about his pecs?

EMMA: I'll give you 20 quid if you can convince him to unbutton his shirt to his navel.

KATIE: Easy money. You're on.

When I first saw this picture, I thought, "Well, that's it, then. It finally happened. Oprah Winfrey finally lost her mind and went to clown college, and now she's homeless."

And then I realized that this is actually Lauryn Hill, who had dropped off the face of the Earth for a while, only to re-emerge as a Macy Gray impersonator headlining a South Florida dinner theater/cabaret show.

Is this what a Fugees reunion does to a girl? Maybe she's just been deeply troubled because her partial vanishing act essentially made Jennifer Love Hewitt the most successful alum of Sister Act 2, and that's why she's suddenly dressing as though she skinned a portly retiree named Morty.

Or, she's starring in Send In The Clowns: The Oprah Gail Winfrey Story. I guess we'll know soon.

We got several e-mails from people who hated this dress that Mandy Moore wore to the License to Wed premiere.

But I rather like it, and not just because it makes her waist look tiny and her legs seem 100 miles long. No, my enjoyment of this gown comes from the fact that I know how much worse it could be: We've seen a far, far fuglier version on Trinny Woodall. So even though the sequined straps look a wee bit like a recycled Christmas craft project, Mandy's vibrant, cool-green version of the dress is SO MUCH prettier. It actually looks elegant, and not at all like she unfolded an old tablecloth from a picnic basket in her grandmother's attic and decided to claim it was "vintage" fabric just because it was old. It all goes to prove that a truth I have held dear really is inalienable: fleeing from orange gingham (and embracing a sandwich) can do WONDERS for a girl.

Plus, Mandy's hair is all flowy and sexy, and her skin looks great, and even though I accidentally saw about 25 mins of American Dreamz this weekend, I still love her. And that's saying something, because in that cinematic wasteland she's sporting such fake-and-baked skin that she looked like she was wearing a marmalade mask. So to whomever or whatever has since made her feel like a Natural Mandy: thank you.

I'm always pleased to see Sarah Michelle Gellar out and about, because I like her, despite not having seen any film she's been part of since 1999's fabulously nasty Cruel Intentions. Apparently, my warm feelings for that, her awesome years as the original Kendall on All My Children (she should play the bitch as often as she can) and some of the great years of Buffy carried far enough that I can ignore all the Scooby Doo disasters and all those horror/thriller flicks. She's a good actress, so I'm glad people still pay her; I just wish someone would hire her to be in something I actually want to watch. Wouldn't she be good on Heroes? I mean, I'm sure she'd also be good on, say, One Tree Hill -- and part of me DOES think that show desperately needs Madam Smidge to grab Chad Michael Murray's head and use it to scrub her shoes to a blinding polish -- but I'd rather she was rocking Peter Petrelli's world with her fantastic hair and wicked powers.

I say "wicked," because although our Smidge is great at dark humor and heroism, clearly some dark force is at work on her wardrobe. Although I covet those shoes deeply, I cannot say the same for the satin Bermuda shorts she's sporting with that corset. It looks like she's trying to design a formal outfit for a desert explorer. Perhaps she's sick of her career and wants to get a job costuming The Mummy 3: Brendan Fraser Pays The Mortgage. But she might want to consider that most desert explorers might find it a tad impractical to tote the kind of industrial-strength travel streamer you'd need to get out all those shabby wrinkles. Not everyone has Bill Pullman, John Candy, and an android Joan Rivers to lug around her trunks, though the world might be a better place if we did. I'd certainly be more cheerful.

I'm pretty sure Gillian Anderson just realized that her dress was actually made of upholstery cast-offs from the club chair my grandma angled across from her bedroom closet, the one I used to drag into said closet so I could have the height required to steal her wig off the top shelf:

Nice cleavage, Scully, but between you and me, in addition to losing the chenille, could we think about going back to the red hair? I'm sure it's one of those things where the color is a pain in the ass to keep up and it reminds you of a job you eventually found yourself sort of less than thrilled about, but....seriously, it really looked good on you. Could you just do it, for me?  When I was recapping The X-Files for Television Without Pity like a hundred years ago, there were episodes where your pretty, pretty red hair was about the only thing that kept me from going totally out of my mind from the sheer effort of trying to figure out what the heck was going on there at the end. Like how you got pregnant, despite the fact that your ova were all hanging out in Mulder's freezer, next to the ice cream. Or how Mulder was writing you love-emails, but...calling you DANA in them, LIKE I AM SO SURE. Or how you never moved out of that apartment despite the fact that your sister got killed there and people attempted to murder you there, seriously, like six or seven times, and then you just left your baby there all the time with total strangers despite the fact that you KNOW someone probably wanted to do something nefarious with him because of how he could move things with his mind! While all this was afoot, I just had to focus on your hair.  And it helped. But now terrible other-worldly things are happening to your dress, and I don't have the red hair to distract me. In fact, I just keep thinking how much better you look WITH the red hair. It's really kind of a problem.

First of all, I really, really hope that Sienna Miller and Dennis Hopper are dating, just because I think it would make a good story, although I suspect his wife wouldn't agree with me:

Second of all: Dear Sienna, that Fastening Your Shoes Over Your Trousers Thing is never going to catch on. You've been trying it for years, and I simply can't believe it's because you think it looks so rad.  Third of all: while your septuagenarian date looks casual but sharp, and certainly appropriate for this particular event (the concert Princes Harry and Wills threw in honor of their mother's 46th birthday and 10th anniversary of her death, with proceeds going to her pet charities) you look like you're running late for your shift at a local vegan food cooperative. Isn't there supposed to be a "My Name Is: SIENNA" tag on that vest?

On the other hand, I suppose it's better than this: