August 2007 Archives

While our days of being as winsome and wrinkle-free as the almost unbearably cute little Miss Suri Cruise are sadly long gone, the glee she is getting from gnawing on that finger is equal to what we're feeling as we announce that we're off again to cover Fashion Week for New York magazine's Web site.

Things will be a little light here on the GFY front while we chase Rachel Zoe through the streets of Manhattan, but please check at Show and Talk blog for all the dish, and keep coming back  here for periodic updates and tidbits throughout the week. Nicky Hilton, Gwen Stefani, J. Lo, and Chloe Sevigny are all showing lines this season, so there should be no shortage of sartorial shenanigans.

Whoever scheduled the VMAs for the middle of Fashion Week should be smacked upside the head with a stiletto. Despite the fact of where they fall this year, we'll be back with fresh updates from that hopefully hideous event on Monday, Sept. 10.

Happy Labor Day!

DONALD: Nice to see you, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH: Thank you, Big D! You look well. I haven't seen you since we did Fierce People.

DONALD: That old thing? Goodness! You look terrific, though -- you've really grown up nicely.

ELIZABETH: It was only two years ago.

DONALD: Marvelous outfit. It's very... confusing, actually... sorry, I just have to squint...

ELIZABETH: Hey, D, we should guest-star on 24!

DONALD: You know, I think this is where I'd make a weed/Weeds joke, but my vision is getting blurry.

ELIZABETH: It'd be so great! RATINGS, Donald! And Emmys!

DONALD: I want to focus on this conversation but that thing is starting to give me a wicked migraine. So much zigging. And zagging. Who made that? Charlie Brown?

ELIZABETH: You could play Kiefer's OTHER DAD! And I'm your trophy wife! OH, COME ON!

DONALD: I think your dress is actually making my heart upset. I see it and I hear machines beeping.

ELIZABETH: Oh. Well, tell Kiefer I said hello. And if he needs a love interest... RROWR!

DONALD: I have to look away from you now.

"Now, how did I get here?" Goldie Hawn wondered to herself.

"Shoot. This is some kind of charity function, isn't it? I thought I was going to my yogi's house for three hours of hard core mediation and some wheatgrass. Oh, god, that's TUESDAY. TUESDAY. Damn. This is what I get for relying on the movement of the stars instead of my Blackberry."

This inventive dress works brilliantly if you're attending the same formal event as, say, the old high-school rival who makes you want to drop through the floor, the coworker you're pretty sure has the SARS, or the boss who doesn't realize you're secretly a spy and are there on a very sensitive undercover operation:

To hide, simply bury your face in the cranium-sized fabric attachment or yank it right up over your hair, and everything will fly right past you. So stress no more when you bump into the ex-boyfriend who you realized was off his nut when he started talking nonsense about how he wants to name your children "Spackle" and "Rotary Phone," and how showers are too damn bossy for their own good, forcing you to fake your death to get him to stop calling you, except now you're at the same restaurant and if he recognizes you he'll mace you or, worse, put you on the phone with his psychic friend. This will hide you as adeptly as a funeral shroud.

I seriously stared at this picture for hours today. It was hypnotic.

The stupid shriveled fake logo shirt painted onto a Fruit of the Loom 3-for-$10 special chapped my hide. I glared at it until I saw double, yet still I drew a blank and could only roll my eyes and go, "What the hell? Whatever, Zachary. I love you on Heroes, but just because you slice open people's skulls during your day job and possibly feast upon but certainly misappropriate their brains does NOT mean that you can do this and I'll be too scared to say anything. Also, you wouldn't want my brain. It would make for a really unsatisfying meal -- more of a light snack, really, or an amuse-bouche. So stop looking at me like that. For real. Stop. It kind of freaks me out. Come on, it's a REALLY dumb shirt, you know this. Why are you... Okay, fine. You know what? You can have my brain. Take it. I barely use it anyway. Take the goddamn thing. Whatever it takes for you snap out of the weird zombie thing and go put on a sweater."

So, if you don't hear from me for a while, assume it's because Mr. Quinto shrugged his shoulders and came by my house to collect. But I'll make sure he gives me a bunch of spoilers before he does. It's the least he can do before a bloody lobotomy.

So, we don't fug people in costume TOO often, primarily because, you know, they're IN COSTUME. And so I would like, first and foremost, to point out that Lucy Liu is not personally to be blamed for the fact that her character in Cashmere Mafia apparently dresses like Carrie Bradshaw if she were forced to lead a Girl Scout troop camping trip ("I got to wondering," she'd say. "Is bird watching all that different from boy watching? Are these little campers learning skills that will eventually serve them well in pitching tents of a different kind? And in an apartment across town, Miranda was doing something humiliating."). 

[Photo: Splash News]

And while I hold out hope that this costume is from, say, a dream sequence, that hope is small and sad indeed. For do you see the bright pink head bobbing behind La Liu? It is attached to the body of Pat "I Dressed Carrie Bradshaw in Those Hotpants, and You LOVED IT" Field, who is indeed doing the clothes for this show. On one hand, this news is horrifying. If knee socks and sandals become the giant flower pin of 2008, we will be more than alarmed. On the other hand, would Sex and the City have been nearly as fun if the outfits hadn't ranged from Amazing to Amazingly Terrible often in the course of one conversation? Probably not. So consider my judgment officially withheld.

Except on this outfit. This outfit is terrible.

Riddle me this, children:

Is Ashlee Simpson turning into Ashley Tisdale, or is Ashley Tisdale actually Ashlee Simspon FROM THE PAST who, thanks to a purloined DeLorean, has returned to reclaim her life the way it would have been had she not fallen prey to the demons of "punk" and Pete Wentz, all full of Disney musicals and shocking revelations in this week's Star magazine that -- GASP! -- she's not naturally all that blond? If the two girls run into each other at Barney's, will the universe therefore fold in upon itself, imploding right there between the Chloe and the Marc Jacobs? Or is Ashley really here on a mission from Ashlee, employed as a warrior from the past come to 2007 to take Jessica Simpson out of her misery, and she's just loitering around the Disney Channel until she gets close enough to get a shot off? Also, what IS the one flirting move guys can't resist? I need to know.

Let's all just take a quick moment to bow our heads and hope fervently that Diane Lane's newest haircut is for a role:

PS: Diane, you've got a lot going on here, with the belt and all, no? But I can't be too concerned with that right now, as I am too worried by the state of your generally extremely gorgeous head. Let's go to the close-up:

I think I've figured out why Peter Pan didn't want to grow up.

The poor lad's mother was a dominatrix, and it beat the yen for puberty right out of him.

Rosamund Pike is a really pretty girl.

A pretty girl with a stonking drunk seamstress. Let's see: The top was probably the product of the last half of yesterday's bottle of wine on an empty stomach -- "Dammit, was that trim, or lining, or both? And are those HER measurements or the dimensions of that coffee table from Ikea? HAHAHA! OH MY GOD I'M OUT OF SHIRAZ" -- and then, furious and furiously amused, she crawled into a bottle of Patron and accidentally glued the skirt to itself before passing out on top of it. So, a little like having Lindsay Lohan make your clothes, except without a bonus dusting of fine white powder. And maybe a bit less nudity. Maybe.

Behold Elvis Crespo and Daniela Mercury at the Latin Grammy Nomination Ceremony:

While he looks totally fine and just as he often does -- albeit a bit on the Severus Snape side -- she was TOTALLY at home painting the guest bathroom and listening to the radio when she realized she'd agreed to do this and was supposed to be at the studio like an hour ago so she threw on a belt and a clean shirt and ran out to the car and was twenty minutes down the road when she looked down and realized she was driving barefoot and oh my god her agent is going to kill her WHERE ARE SHOES? DO I HAVE SHOES? and then realized that, yes, she had these random zebra print clodhoppers clonking around in the backseat and so she just threw them on and marched into hair and make-up and pretended that this was all COMPLETELY on purpose and TOTALLY the new style and no one better say anything and then this is where we all learned that "fake it 'til you make it" doesn't always totally work.

Welcome to the newest innovation in efficient summer fashion: Quilted formal shorts, brought to you by the makers of Bounty paper towels.

Bright enough to conceal food stains; absorbent enough to take care of any unexpected spills, like when you overfill your martini glass, or knock back one too many and trip over your best friend's handsy cousin from Connecticut; and stretchy enough for you to comfortably kick him in the shins when he tries to help you up by the boobs. If only such a garment had existed back when Fergie needed it most. It's like an adult diaper without the stigma. And the awkward bulk.

I totally get the Zac Efron thing. He's charming and non-threatening and when he takes you out for movies and a milkshake, he's not going to do anything scary like try and touch your boob. He's perfect for the 14-year old girls of the world. In fact, he would have appealed mightily to me when I as 14, especially in his Members Only jacket and overall Maxwell Caulfield disguise here:

[Photo: INF Daily]

He's seriously about to burst into song and then drive his motorcycle off a cliff, only to reappear at a celebratory luau to make out with Michelle Pfeiffer. And, frankly, isn't it about time we re-made Grease 2? We know the kid can sing. Stick him in there, give M. Pfeif her old part back (her plastic surgery is really good), and just wait for the box office magic.

As alternately ordinary and twee as I find Amanda Bynes' clothing line -- note to Steve & Barry's: If it looks like everything costs under $20, then it automatically takes the novelty out of your pricing plan -- I will say this for her: She didn't paint her face all over everything and then expect you to pay for the privilege of having her eyes staring out from the vicinity of your nipples.

I guarantee you these vain little babies cost more than $20 (the shirts, I mean, but possibly also the girl). The Warholian number behind Paris's right shoulder is a deliciously conceited treat, as is the one that entreats you to "LUV THYSELF," as long as you don't do it enough to buy a shirt that's properly spelled. But the Main Event is my favorite. It's like she's depicting herself behind bars in a prison run by Victoria's Secret. Yep, held captive by her own indomitable sex appeal -- that's our Paris.

Although, is it just me, or does she look a wee bit haggard? Maybe she was up all night crying her eyes out when she realized her flippy new 'do is just a poor, shaggy clone of Posh's coif, and therefore David Beckham would never be likely to get them confused and accidentally take Paris home for a night of muscular passion. But chin up, Paris; iit's just as well. See, you don't want to cross Victoria Beckham, or you'll end up learning the hard way how many different torturous uses there are for a press-on nail.

[Photo: Splash News]

After an invigorating, crowd-pleasing game of Peek-A-Boo gripped the party in wild mirth, Roberta Flack slowly realized that the joke was officially on her: She'd forgotten to bring her real outfit, and would be stuck for the rest of the night in an elaborate taffeta sack.

I LOVE fashion magazines from other countries. Probably because they feel like a new treat, rather than the same-old same-old I'm accustomed to (when you subscribe to like 10 glossies, you start to get burned out at some point), and also, you get to do fun math to figure out the currency conversations on all the stuff therein (please note: the "fun math" I did last time I was in Great Britain involved me just deciding that everything was priced in dollars so that I didn't get too bummed out by my TopShop receipt). It's also fun to see what is au courant in other places.   Apparently, our Canadian friends are currently wearing make-up the likes of which makes them appear to be burning with the supernatural flush brought on by the fevers of galloping consumption:

K Kni is lovely indeed, but she looks so feverish and overly warm here that I feel the urge to fluff up her pillow, dab her forehead with a cool cloth and then spoon lukewarm broth into her mouth, whilst murmuring soothing things like,  "no, no, no one wants to strangle you. That's just your dress," and "Johnny Depp will be here at 4."

Oh, Christy Turlington, how I loved you when I was young. Of all the models writhing around in George Michael's "Freedom" video, you were my favorite. And while I understand that, as George says, sometimes the clothes do not make the man, I sort of wish you weren't dressed in what looks like, from this angle, a toned-down version of the outfit Crazy Homicidal Hermaphrodite Vincent wears on Passions.

Vincent, because he is nothing if not totally overly dramatic, prefers to be Crazy and Homicidal and Blackmail-y while wearing a sort of a split-down-the-middle half-dress/half-pants outfit (as well as a half-man, half-woman mask) that non-subtly should have clued someone in Harmony into the fact that s/he had some gender identification issues. Of course, I guess his issues would have been obvious no matter what he was wearing, as he's: a rapist (of his half sister!), an arsonist, a murderer, a blackmailer and someone who seduced his half-uncle (who is also his half-cousin...I think) into a whirlwind of gay(ish) sex that said half-uncle claims he didn't enjoy very much, but I don't believe him, and frankly, if said half-uncle WERE gay(ish), it would be a lot less shocking than that time he was sleeping with his sister the nun, even though she turned out not to be either his sister or a nun in the final analysis. 

Anyhoodle, I just think Christy could have benefited from taking one of these pieces off, you know? But at least she's not running around killing prostitutes, bartenders, psychiatrists, or her half-sister's kind of bitchy lesbian lover. I mean, as far as I know. Oh, Passions. Am I really going to have to get DirecTV just so I can keep up with this sort of thing?  I am scared that the answer is yes.

We'd heard tell of what host Cat Deeley wore on the So You Think You Can Dance? finale, but not having seen it, we filed it away under, "Things We Can Never Prove For Ourselves," alongside the existence of Bigfoot and Britney's hair regrowth.

Then, photos started trickling in, and it was almost as frightening as the sasquatch itself banging at the kitchen window hungry for some human liver:

[Photo: Splash News]

Something tells me he might have already taken a messy swipe at hers, unless she's just really been lazy about getting back to her waxer.

Although... has anyone seen Bigfoot and Cat in the same place at the same time? I mean, for one thing, nobody who hasn't been living in a far-flung forest or isn't Sienna Miller would do her hair that way on purpose.

Usually, Eve looks pretty age-appropriate, so I can't figure out what possessed her to show up at the Teen Choice Awards -- where, presumably, teens are trying to tell us what they like, because 184 million viewers of High School Musical 2 still felt ambiguous -- in what amounts to cocktail pajamas:

Granted, I covet the shoes a trifle, but overall the effect is less "young vixen" than "Cougar salivating over her prey as she lasciviously licks caviar off a cracker." Or she's simply wearing the uniform of a long-lost martial art in which she's a black-belt -- say, the kind where she can slice off your head with a well-timed leg spin without so much as spilling her bourbon. Rrowr.

Still, I can see one advantage: The only hint of her Anklet of Legal Woes is in the bunching of the evil pants' drawstring hem, so perhaps she thought cloaking herself in fug would distract us from the Lessons Of Her Past. No dice, though, Eve. Also, The Lessons Of Her Past would actually make a great Lifetime movie if you added a few colons in there, like The Lessons Of Her Past: I Drink, Therefore I Can't: The Eve Jihan Jeffers Story.

I might have to eat all those words with a side of paté, however, because here she is demonstrating the more current fashions of the day and I'm not sure it's an improvement:

JESSICA ALBA: I want to die. Why am I here? At least I can wear this shade of yellow. Even in my doldrums, my own beauty comforts me.

DANE COOK: I'M HILARIOUS!

JESSICA: I hate him. And I hate his shirt. It looks like someone threw up on him.  I hate everyone. I hate myself.

DANE:  I SLEPT WITH THAT GIRL! AND THAT GIRL! AND THAT GIRL! I'M A STUD! A COMEDIAN STUD! SEE MY NEW MOVIE WHATSITCALLED WHEN IT OPENS WHENEVER!

JESSICA: Maybe I shouldn't have broken up with my boyfriend in order to pretend that I'm maybe sort of seeing Loudmouth over here, for publicity. But he was boring, anyway. Was that wrong?

DANE: YEAH! AW YEAH! BOO YEAH!

JESSICA:  Sigh. I have to stop this. Thinking gives you wrinkles.

AMBER: Well. This is... embarrassing.

CHYNA: Tell me about it.

AMBER: I don't get it. When I told you I wanted to wear this, you said I looked like a barmaid at the Mom Jeans Saloon.

CHYNA: And you told ME I this outfit only works if it's my day to fill the pig troughs!

AMBER: WELL IT'S TRUE.

CHYNA: That goes double for me!

AMBER: So if my outfit SUCKS so much, how come you're wearing yours?

CHYNA: ... Peer pressure?

AMBER: God, it's so deadly, isn't it? People just don't know.

CHYNA: Wanna go get our hair cut like Posh Spice's?

AMBER: OHMYGODYES.

CHYNA: I heard that Miley Cyrus say she was thinking about it and I want to BEAT HER THERE.

AMBER: Whee! But let's change first.

It gives me great pleasure to present Kelly "I Love You But Oh My God What Are You WEARING?!?!" Clarkson with a very well-earned and long-in-coming Well Played (or, as I often mis-type it, Well Plated, which I guess also works, as she is serving herself to the public for our consumption):

She looks so youthful and summery and in-proportion, and so unlike her usual unholy combination of, like, Stevie Nicks and someone who's bought up eBay's entire collection of Parisian night suits. And while I love Kelly enough that I still want to go for hot wings and beer and gossip with her, no matter what she's wearing, it's awfully refreshing to see her look as pretty as she is talented for once.

Rachel Hunter really should have given Lauren Holly a call before she left the house in this.

[Photo: Splash News]

Instead, we get to do our own version of that old tabloid chestnut, "Who Wore It Better?" except in our case, it's "Who Has MORE Reasons To Replace Their Front Door With A Giant Mirror?" 

Obviously, on both women, the dress looks like they arrived at their respective events by motorcycle. But at least Lauren Holly looks sassy, has great hair, wore awesome shoes, and appears to be hell-bent on grinning those wrinkles to death. She wins. I don't even need to see Rachel's shoes. And given that she seems to be in a slight trance, she may not have bothered to put any on -- it's like she heard a strange ruckus near the front door, threw her bedhead into an elastic, and wandered outside her darkened home to find a fully-lit Hamptons magazine event had decided to throw itself on her front lawn. "Oh, balls. Did I at least remember to shower sometime in the last 24 hours?" she seems to be wondering. "And am I still drunk from last night, or can I chance some champers?"

Definitely drink up, Rachel. You're going to need it.

Brittany Snow is terribly cute. She was even kind of cute as a neo-Nazi on Nip/Tuck, although obviously considerably less sympathetic than she was as an American Bandstand-er on American Dreams. What I do sympathize with, however, is this:

We've all had that moment (especially recently, now that shirts are longer and skirts are shorter) when we've been standing in the middle of a store holding an item up to our torso and wondering if it's a dress or a top.  And while I often enjoy shopping alone -- it's like my Zen mediation -- that's one of those moments when your Zen is ruined, because you don't have anyone to give you their opinion on the relative skirt-osity of something, and you have to flag down the nearest person who looks like they might know what they're talking about to figure out what exactly it is that you're holding in your hand. Let me just say that if B. Sno had flagged me down, I'm quite sure I would have told her, "honey, it's a shirt."

Julie Newmar was fantastic as Catwoman on Batman, which I used to watch at home every day after school, right before Scooby Do. (I had a youthful crush on Adam West, and wanted to be Batgirl -- her outfit was seriously cute, and I've never been able to resist the idea of having a flip.)  And she's still quite beautiful, as you can see. I also have to give her props for egging Jim Belushi's house when their long-standing feud over the fence between their houses got out of control, especially since she sort of admitted it.  I don't know if I'd want to live next door to her, but I'd definitely be amused if I were her neighbor. I mean, if she's wearing this out in public, what do you think she's wearing to fetch the paper?

I mean, this is what you wear when you've serving mimosas to a gentleman caller next to the pool on a Sunday morning. A long cigarette holder might also be involved, as well as, possibly, some form of blackmail. And it takes a certain admirable amount of ballsy charm to actually wear it out in public. That being said, I am reminded of certain words of wisdom which were first applied to the concept of general etiquette, namely that good manners exist primarily to make everyone feel comfortable in potentially uncomfortable situations -- like parties where you don't know anyone.  I feel like some of those general rules might well be applied to the concept of dressing for public consumption. For example, I don't think it would be a bad idea if we all agreed that, just as you write a thank you note when someone sends you a gift, all Seduction/Blackmail lingerie concoctions ought to be left AT HOME, no matter how old you are.

I'm sure Venus Williams is very comfortable here.

[Photo: Splash News]

But I'm equally sure that the folks at Steve & Barry's -- who can't be too happy at how hideous both Sarah Jessica Parker's and Amanda Bynes' celebrity lines turned out -- would have preferred that she show up to announce their collaboration in something besides what she wears, say, around the chalet after she's peeled off her ski outerwear and is shimmying up to the fireplace for some aprés-ski cocktails. Unless that's the theme of her line, in which case, it won't work without a complimentary wee bottle of Chambourd with purchase. Or upon entrance. Yeah, that might be more effective.

Sharon Laurence's Terrifying Pantsual Parade continues apace:

I don't know where she's getting these things -- and I don't WANT to know, PLEASE don't email me the information, because if you do, I'll then spend much of the morning looking at similar items and my whole weekend will get off on the wrong foot and it will just be complete tragedy -- but this madness has got to stop. No one -- NO ONE -- should be wearing pants that appear to be composed entirely of Target giftwrap.

Was this International "Pay Homage to the Fashions of Aaron Spelling Shows" Week?

Or is this NOT something Sammy Jo or Amanda or the deadly Claudia Blaisdel and the Case of the Hideous Bangs has ever worn on Dynasty? It's hard to tell sometimes -- all the slacks and flowing fabrics start to run together into one giant billowing drape, the likes of which is just begging to get caught in somebody's flaming candles of hate.

Admittedly, this is not the weirdest Echoes of 1982 ensemble I've ever seen, but somehow I still can't get over the nagging feeling that I was supposed to be spending the week wearing a tributary cocktail of bejeweled culottes, a blouse with puffed sleeves, and a satin turban. And I would. For Aaron Spelling? Anything. Of course, these days, I'd probably have an easier time locating the sensible moccasins, khakis, and denim long-sleeved button-down shirts that the mom on 7th Heaven probably cherishes so. In fact, I might go pick some up now so I can enjoy the last day of this special week, just in case my instinct is right. Plus, that way I probably won't frighten the mailman. He's not spry enough to survive an abruptly deployed satin turban.

MICHALKA 1: How do I keep things new? Well, my tip is, instead of a boring old store-bought bracelet, you can MAKE one! How? It's easy: PAINTER'S TAPE!

ALICIA KEYS: That's... great, yeah! Sigh. How did I get roped into this? Is Ashton Kutcher back there somewhere? He is, isn't he?

MICHALKA 2: Whatever, dude -- I mean, I guess tape is okay, but Daddy's necktie drawer works just as well for accessories AND it doesn't pull any hair off your arm.

ALICIA: Hysterical, really. Yeah. Now come on -- who did this? Was it Beyonce? It's always freakin' Beyonce.

MICHALKA 1: EWWWW, you have HAIR on your ARMS?

ALICIA: Did that bitch tell you I was available to give credibility to these two? They're not even the real Olsen Twins! What, am I not BIG ENOUGH for the real Olsen Twins?

MICHALKA 2: Shut UP, beeyotch, it's NORMAL! Not EVERYONE feels the need to wax everything in sight! God, you're so MEAN. I'm telling Mom!

ALICIA: I can't believe this. I'm just going to smile at the host and pretend they're not here. And after I kill whoever agreed to this booking, I'm gonna to slap the disco fever out of whoever left me nothing but this jumpsuit to wear. Are we sure Punk'd got cancelled?

MICHALKA 1: FINE, then I'll tell Mom you cut up one of her favorite blazers to make that vest after you saw one like it on Melrose Place!

ALICIA: Seriously, I am in pretty good shape. But next to them, in these pants? EACH of my legs looks like two of theirs put together. That is twisted.

MICHALKA 2: You wouldn't DARE! And anyway, it's better than what Alicia's wearing! She'd need to hire another assistant just to handle zipper duty all day!

ALICIA: I did NOT just hear that. I DID NOT just HEAR THAT. First of all, it's Ms. Keys if you're nasty. And if you're not.

MICHALKA 1: Ha ha ha, that was good, Aly! Or are you AJ? Sometimes even I forget.

ALICIA: I give up. You know what? I'm just gonna chill and enjoy the fact that this is the last time I'm ever coming here with people so young they were probably still eating paste five years ago.

MICHALKA 1: Oh, my GOD, that reminds me: You know what works awesome if you're out of white eye shadow? GLUE! Your eyes look so big!

ALICIA: I rest my case.

Do you think the folks at Maxim looked at the proofs from this frankly embarrassing Lindsay Lohan photoshoot and just shrugged and said, "well, everyone knows she's totally strung out. Why pretend otherwise?"

At least, let's hope that's the thought-process behind running this extremely glazed-eyed photo of a girl with very well-publicized substance abuse problems. Because otherwise, it sort of seems like they might as well have subtitled it, "Nothing's Hotter Than a Vulnerable Girl With Daddy Issues Who's Only Marginally Capable of Giving Consent Thanks To Her Massive Drug Problems. She's A Mess, and That's Awesome!" And while I'm not the biggest Maxim fan in the world --   it's like Cosmo for men, and just as silly (I mean, seriously. "Clothes That Seal the Deal"?)  -- I'm pretty sure they're not actually making the argument that the sexiest girls are the ones who can't stand upright and are prone to throwing on other people's coke-lined trousers. I mean, at the very least, she's NEVER going to offer to be the designated driver.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

"Hola! Hello! You all look so worried! Listen, thank you for all your concern, amigos, but my feet are FINE.  I mean, perdon, can't a girl randomly decide to dig out a pantsuit she bought at The Limited in 1996, before she was famous? Huh? Can't I just feel like wearing something badly tailored just to remind me where I come from, and that I am real? Does there have to be a dark secret?  I just forgot to get a pedicure! And maybe my shoes aren't polished! Or I have a blister! You don't know! But it has NOTHING to do with, say, Marc developing a foot fetish and gnawing them in the middle of the night and forcing me to hide them the next day because they are HIS and only HIS, and also, grande chunks of my heel are missing. HAHAHAHAHA, that's so SILLY, tontos! Now, if you'll excuse me, my bodyguard needs to carry me inside. Not because it hurts to walk on my stumps, no, not at all, but because these sunglasses cost me like $500, and it's worth it because looking like a giant insect is totally in right now, but if I trip on my hem and fall and break them, Marc is going to take my big toe... I mean, wallet. Leave me now. Besos!"

Let's get one thing straight. Teri Hatcher looks great in this dress:

But there's on thing that doesn't look good on even the dishiest man or woman, and that's a cloak of desperation, a fact that T Hatch kindly illustrated for us, using director Rod Lurie as her object of needy desire. To wit:  Please Let Me Nuzzle You, a drama in four acts:

ACT ONE:

TERI: I'm so happy to be here! I might have drank -- drunk? drinked? dranken? Whatever -- an entire bottle of Chambord this afternoon while watching season one of The Closer and crying.

ROD: Teri smells like Kir Royales. I'm just going to pose for this picture and then make my escape.

TERI: Rod, wasn't I AMAZZZZING on Commander in Chief?

ROD: That was Geena Da -- never mind. Yes. You were great.

TERI: I'M GONNA KISS YOU NOW. Just a leeeeetle kissy-poo.

ROD: Oh, god. She's going to kiss me. How I am supposed to get out of this? Let's try denial.

TERI: Almost there! ALMOST KISSY-TIME! KISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSY TIME!

ROD: Okay, I'm going to pretend this isn't happening. Look, the side of that building is just fascinating.

TERI: BINGO!

ROD: Oh, fine. My wife is going to kill me.

I'm not sure who this woman is.

But I'm pretty sure I know who she thinks she is: Emily Valentine, the off-key-crooning, guitar-playing tongue bandit who licked a trail through Dylan to Brandon, slipped a drug called U4EA ("It's '4'you and '4' me") into Brandon's drink at a rave so she and Brandon could trip out and eat each other's faces on the hood of his car, then turned psycho when he dumped her for it and slashed her own tires, sent menacing letters to The Blaze -- which, honey, don't piss off Andrea Zuckerman or she will THINK you to DEATH -- made prank phone calls and then, because there are only so many times you can tell Brandon his refrigerator is running and he'd better go catch it before he realizes it's a prank, finally dumped gasoline on a homecoming float and sat on it playing with a lighter.

Indeed, I wouldn't be at all surprised if this lady tried to get into the party by exchanging an egg. And Jason Priestley is happily married and just had a baby, so someone should maybe check her pockets for any vengeful-looking lighter fluid.

"Nice and easy, James, nice and easy... just look concerned about Pete and don't trip on the steps... God, I'm nervous. This is a big moment --- I'm never going to look as awesome as when I'm in a photo next to a reanimated corpse. This should be a slam-dunk! This is me at my most shaggable, walking around with a clammy lump of wasted, malodorous flesh! Come hither, ladies! But ... what if I blow it? What if there's a spot on my jacket? What if I accidentally do that frowny thing where my nostrils start to flare? Or... God, what if Pete vomits on my back? Or pees on my leg like a dog? His fly always looks open, he could probably do it involuntarily, or as a loving gesture to Kate by scribbling her name on my pants in urine. You know what? This is the worst job I've ever had. I HATE this guy. He's a mess. He smells like the fish and chips I threw out two weeks ago and I'm not ENTIRELY sure he didn't drool on my hand just now, which means I need to spend tonight disinfecting it. Great. THANKS, greaserag. I don't know any other manager who's as worried that his client is going to rain bodily fluids all over them. Maybe Ricky Martin, but that's it. Mum's right -- I've got to quit. She said she could get me a job emptying bedpans at the nursing home; at least there, I know it's coming. RIGHT. It's done then. This is the last time... although, he DID get off the charges, so... okay, NEXT time he pulls this drug malarkey is when I'll do it. But hopefully he'll wait until next summer after Glastonbury. I don't want to give up my VIP pass. Daddy needs some new groupies to impress."

As dreamy as it sometimes sounds to marry Intern George and be whisked off to his villa for the rest of our days, it's actually probably pretty stressful to go from being a normal person to the girlfriend of a major movie star, then the pregnant wife of the major movie star, and finally, the date of the major movie star at all his massive summer press tours. I mean, it's hard enough for us to watch George get so exhausted by all the preening and the pageantry. One time, right near the end of all that Ocean's Thirteen hoo-ha, the poor lamb poured us some lemonade and completely forgot to add the vodka. So unlike him. It all looks very taxing and is the primary reason neither of us has accepted his copious marriage proposals... yet.

So, full marks to Luciana Barroso. She seems to be handling all the pressure with aplomb.

Aplomb, and a really hot husband. But still. The dress is very simple, but simple is often the most comfortable option in summer, and it's got some subtle flourishes that make it more elegant. Also, it has Matt Damon. I'd be all glowy too. She looks gorgeous, and not at all smug that she's the chosen life partner of a guy who seems super nice, is really talented, and donated some killer DNA to her womb. Full marks for seeming rather pleasant in the face of the kind of gloating she could be doing.

Also, she doesn't seem obsessed with working out or collagenizing/warping herself/getting implants that make up 50 percent of her body weight or talking about carbs like they're a bimonthly sin, and lost the pregnancy weight in actual NORMAL human time rather than celebrity "I started working out a week after I delivered so that Us Weekly could do a feature on my Post-Baby Bikini Bod that praises me for losing 50 lbs in 4 weeks" nutjob time. I think we can all get behind that.

So, here's the thing. I kind of can't decide if Debbie -- excuse me, DEBORAH -- Gibson here looks sort of cute in an updated version of what Carrie Bradshaw called The Naked Dress (you know, the one she wears on the side of the bus, and which she wears on her first date with Mr Big and then they have sex and she worries if she was too slutty etc etc etc and don't judge me for remembering that so well, I just saw that episode on KTLA while I was getting ready for bed the other night), or if she looks completely washed out in what is essentially a nude-colored towel:

I do know that I hate her shoes with it. But we have another, more pressing, question, and that is the following:

Oh my god, this is killing me. No, really. It hurts my heart:

Chris Gorham, dude. White jeans, really? You look like a pool-side waiter in Palm Springs.

Here's the part where -- like in Entertainment Weekly, when they're about to talk about Time-Warner and they have to do that thing where they disclose that T-W owns EW -- I am obligated to note that I knew Chris Gorham in college and not only was he basically agreed by all the girls and gays to be the cutest boy we'd actually ever met, he was also really nice and funny and just all around delightful and I'm sure he is still all those things and that's why I just had the following argument with myself:

ME: I can't fug Chris Gorham! He's so nice and cute!

MYSELF: He's wearing white jeans.

I: COME ON. He's such a delight on Ugly Betty! That scene! With the Superman tee? LOVE HIM!

MYSELF: You love Kelly Clarkson, too. Never stopped you before.

ME: You are such a bitch, Myself. Don't you remember those halcyon college days, when he lived down the hall from you?

I: He was really nice! And cute! Let it go! Let the white jeans go!

MYSELF: WHITE JEANS ON A DUDE. Am I the only one here with any sort of devotion to editorial integrity?

ME: You're also the only one wearing cut-offs.

MYSELF: Bitch, it's like 110 outside!

ME: I'm just saying.

I: Girls, please. Can we just discuss this without it turning into some self-loathing internal catfight? We can all agree that white jeans on a dude are wrong, unless you're working in the service industry?

ME: I guess.

MYSELF: That was my WHOLE POINT.

I: And that, despite our personal feelings of warm fuzziness toward Chris Gorham, we can not let white jeans slide?

MYSELF: Um, YES! That's what I've been saying.

ME: I guess so. BUT I'M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.

As I was getting off a plane recently, I heard the little girl behind me trying to explain to her mother the subtle differences between AJ and Aly Michalka, and how they got to be famous. I tried so hard to remember so that I could report back to Jessica, but my eyes glazed over; then I looked at the mother and saw that HER eyes were glazed over and her brow was furrowed and she seemed confused and was murmuring, "Okay..." and I knew then and there that the very concept of Aly&AJ is not meant to be understood by anyone old enough to drink legally.

And yet, the Aly&AJ World Pseudo-Recognition Tour continues apace:

From what we've gleaned here at GFY HQ through as little actual research or work as possible, one of them is 16 and one of them is 18. The one on the right seems to be Carrie Underwood crossed with Ashley Tisdale (and by the way, congrats to Ashley Tisdale for shaking off the mantle of HER sister and becoming a cultural reference all her own) and the other is kind of Courtney Peldon with a dash of Olsen Twin. I can't discern what, in fact, that one is wearing. It appears to be a cropped tee tied over... another shirt. Or a scarf tied over a white top. Honestly, I stopped caring the minute I realized that the other one is wearing pants from when she was 12 and a shirt advertising a song that came out BEFORE SHE WAS EVEN ALIVE, which she probably only chose because it says "Blondie" on it and SHE'S blond TOO and coincidentally also wants you to call her. Which I will do, to alert her that I embraced a similar concept (plus some pink spray in my hair) when I went as Cyndi Lauper for Halloween in 1986, at which point she will say, "Lauper what?" and my head will explode.

They also appear to have an album out called Insomniatic because nobody bothered to suggest that they use an ACTUAL word, and some of the songs that probe the rich puddles of teen emotion include "Like Whoa" and the simple, stark eloquence of, "÷." For real.Because math is  pain, people. In related news, I'd like to announce the commencement of my young-adult songwriting career, beginning with such hits as, "Yes/No/Circle One" and "'F' is for 'Physics'." They'll be ready for purchase in about 15 minutes. Call you, Michalka-On-The-Right? No. You call me.

[Photo: Splash News]

Dear Diary,

IT TOTALLY WORKED. That whole prison thing? GENIUS. Everyone should do it. Although I don't want them to, because then EVERYONE will be as adored as I am... but if they DO, they'll all be copying me, so maybe that's okay, too. But seriously, prison was a total epitome for me, Diary. For one thing, it expanded my vocabulation -- Bitchmaster Nunchucks taught me "epitome" while we were in the yard one day writing poems about homeless people. It means... shoot, I forget. Something to do with having a big realization. Or, wait, was it something about pretty mouths? I get confused sometimes with all the stuff I learned.

ANYWAY, I got out and everyone loves me now. Larry King said my diaries that I wrote in my cell were "unbelievable," or something, and a million people -- maybe even FIVE million -- lined up to come see my clothing line at Kitson, and I've stopped hanging out with toxic people (although sometimes THEY still hang around ME; I can't control THEIR free will, Diary. I learned THAT while I was meditating over a bologna sandwich). And now I go around tickling babies under their chins and giving them wisdom, like, "Kid, I hope you're wearing diapers under those shorts in case you're getting out of a cab and they ride up," or "Never let anyone photograph you eating ever again," and "Don't act like a total whore to your best friend who is just innocent and loving and then try to make up for the cameras and then get pregnant during your former BFF's time of need IN PRISON and act all sainted and shit when everyone knows you're just a HUNGRY COW HAG," and "Always wear as much shiny gold stuff as you can." That last one is my philosophy now. In fact, I wish I hadn't worn this bathing suit and sarong -- I call them "shirt and skirt" but Second Maid snorted at me and told me to use their real names, so whatever, FINE -- or else I could wear them to the VMAs. I totally would. I am hot.

Also, that Adrian Grenadine dude from Entourage has started letting himself be seen with me in public, for some documentary he's shooting about... I think it's about awesome hotties that people love. That might even be the title. But you know what's unfair? I'll show you what's unfair.

Oh, Vogue. Why you gotta play me like this?

I'm not even going to mention the Giant Heavy Brows -- which aren't at all flattering to her, although I personally think a heavier brow is often nicer than a too-thin Kelly Taylor Circa I Choose Me brow. So it's not like I am leading some kind of Anti-Brow Brigade, I just think that what looks good on some faces looks positively Crayola on this one -- or the ridiculous fact that EVERY SINGLE HEADLINE is alliterative ("Fashion's Feistiest Icon" and "Perfect Political Partner" and "Fearless Fashion" AND "Magician of Makeup"? Was there no room for "Piles of Positively Peerless Pants" or "Scads of Seriously Sexy Skirts" or "My Mailman Refuses to Deliver This Because It Weighs More Than Some Babies"? Wait, that last one doesn't have any alliteration. My bad). Or the fact that she's dressed like an ostrich. I mean, it's Vogue. Someone has to be dressed like a bird or Anna won't let them go to press. But what I primarily take issue with here is her terrible, terrible, terrible hair. This is what my hair looks like when I get back from the gym (we're pretending that I go to the gym this week). This is what my hair looks like when I'm trying that thing you do where you give up shampoo in the hopes that your hair "gets used to" being washed less often and you only have to wash it like once a month and it's still all full and shiny (this usually lasts approximately three days before my hair starts looking like...this. And then I wash it). I find it very hard to believe that Vogue couldn't do a more flattering up-do. Something a bit less Shit My Poli Sci Paper Is Due Tomorrow And I Haven't Even Started It and something a bit more I'm The Best God Damn Dancer In the American Ballet Theatre! Who The Hell Are You?

I mean, Vogue IS supposed to be aspirational, right?

There's something to be said for rocking it out and having a good time, even if you're wearing something incredibly ridiculous, a la Kim Stewart and her Sister I Didn't Know Existed Probably Because She's Not Hanging Out at Kitson All the Time Since I Think She Lives In England:

[Photo: Splash News]

KIM S: WHEEEE!

RUBY S: TOTALLY WHEEEE! God, I'm glad we had those last six shots.

KIM: WHEE! My turquoise tights are sort of cute, right?! I KNEW IT! WHEEEEEEEEE!

RUBY: I can't believe you talked me into short shortie over-alls and these boots! WHEE!

KIM: It's all part of my evil plan to look better by surrounding myself with people in outfits worse than mine. WHEE!

RUBY: What did you call these boots, again?  Whee!?

KIM: I call them THE CANKLE MAKERS! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHWHEEEEE!

RUBY: Wait. That's really mean, Kim. Why would you do that to me?

KIM: Oh, Ruby, don't be such a cranky-puss. We're having fun, remember? WHEEEE!

RUBY: No. No whee. You brainwashed me. People totally are NOT wearing shortie short overalls and tights and cankle makers in Los Angeles right now, are they?

KIM: I'm sure SOMEONE is. Come on! We're having so much fun!

RUBY: This is why I don't hang out with you.

I am relieved to report that I still can't tell Aly and AJ Whatevertheirnamesare apart. The Twin Delineation segment of my brain is entirely full of Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen, with a small piece set aside for Tiki and Ronde Barber and Michelle and Amanda from America's Next Top Model. In fact, I don't even know if AlyAndAJ ARE even twins, or just sisters, or just two blond girls who look a lot alike.

[Photo: Splash News]

What I do know is that This One totally just reminded me that I've been meaning to go out and find some super tight skinny high-waisted overalls! It's on my list right after Shave Only Half  My Head, Dye My Eyebrows Purple, and Invest All My Savings In The Paris Hilton Home For Kids Who Can't Read Good.

You know what? I feel you, CariDee. I'm so stoked for the return of football season that I actually watched a SCRIMMAGE a week or two ago in which the defenses weren't even allowed to tackle the quarterback. It might as well have been flag football in my backyard. And I might be taping a rerun of a pre-season game tomorrow morning. So, I completely get your excitement and can't blame you for wearing a Snoopy shirt that reminds us all that a long, beautiful autumn full of weekend -- and Monday, and sometimes Thursday -- pigskin and copious screaming and being afraid to wash my jersey in case that launders the good luck right out of it and drinking more beer and making the occasional (read: frequent) rude gesture at the TV and eating LOTS of meat and meat-adjacent products like hot dogs and bratwurst and being so overwrought that I can't look and yet I can't NOT look... sigh. It's all right around the corner, as is my inevitable sports-related aneurysm.

[Photo: Splash News]

But no level of brain-bursting elation is an excuse for stumbling into your closet and coming out in shortie overalls, unless you have actually just had a cranial explosion (and if that's the case, bravo -- you've recovered REALLY nicely, but maybe go home and lie down). That thing is practically a halter top for your crotch. It looks like something you might wear in a barn, when you're trying to get the handsome stable hand to feed you a carrot and muck our your stall, so to speak.

Although... it does seem that you might be standing in front of a barn. A strange barn next to a concrete sidewalk. Maybe it's a barn-themed party? That could be sort of fun. Well, fun, until some dude shows up having chosen "your barn door is open" as his theme costume, thus giving everyone in attendance a sneak peek at the animal living in his pants.

I don't know what Juliette Lewis has done to make me think, when first catching a glimpse of this photo, "did Bret Michaels dye his hair?", but it's either incredibly right or very, very wrong:

I particularly enjoy the Brooch As Navel accoutrement, which, admittedly, Bret Michaels would never wear, as I imagine he doesn't think much about accessorizing his navel through his shirt.  He's too busy thinking about roses, thorns, and how it's impossible to have one without the other, but that, despite the thorns, it ain't nothing but a good time. I also should have know this was NOT Bret Michaels, as he -- as I've learned from watching Rock of Love -- is never without a cowboy hat, a bandanna, a bandanna AND a cowboy hat, or similar headgear.

Oh, wait:

Nope, too over the top. Although this will come in handy when Juliette leaves rock 'n' roll to return to acting, in a role written just for her. Namely, as the wackiest member of a drum line in a gross-out college comedy about marching bands called Don't Rain On My Parade.  Her unrequited love for the dreamy drum major will provide the appropriate amount of pathos for the film, and the final moments, when she at last finds happiness in the arms of the mascot, will provide the heart.

When did Hilary Duff turn into Beyonce?

Sure, there are worse things you could turn into -- like a newt, or Britney -- but it's a tad incongruous to see the Duffster strutting around on stage like she's just risen from the ashes of the Knowles Family Goodwill pile.

Poor Sarah Jane Morris.

She probably had no idea when she donned this otherwise innocuous, sweet summer dress that -- during her big photo opportunity, no less -- it would rise up and try to throttle her on the spot. No motive has been identified for the attempted assassination of a completely harmless person who was probably just trying to get inside for some free crudités, a glass of champagne, and a swag bag. But we can only assume that after years of celebrities committing fashion crimes, the fashion itself has developed a vicious streak.

So, be careful. Be vigilant. And maybe stay away from things with strange flaps, or scarf-bodices, or built-in dishtowels -- or whatever that thing is -- that could randomly nooseify themselves. Save your necks.

Love the dress, Kaley...

... but, REALLY, you couldn't do any better than flip-flops? If the event were on the beach, I could understand your point; if they were even slightly dressed-up flip-flops, it would at least feel like you made some effort. And, sure, you're standing on a grassy lawn and sometimes that's a sinkhole for heels, but from the other pictures I saw, there were plenty of places you could have stood without that peril, and anyway, how could you have known in advance you'd be taking pictures out in the yard? Are you some kind of lawn psychic?

Think how much more put-together this would've been with a really hot Louboutin (or Louboutin-adjacent) peep-toe, or some sexy sandals, or ANYTHING actually befitting a cute dress you're wearing to an InStyle party full of better-shod people. Just because Havaianas are the It Flip-Flop doesn't mean they go with everything, to any occasion. I mean, Paris Hilton is the It Jailbird, and you're not trying to drag her with you all over town.

There is something so refreshing about rediscovering my feelings for Jessica Simpson, like a dip in the pool after a hot, sticky day. My distaste for her is a constant, like the tides, and unless she saves my dog from a hostage situation (for example), I suspect it will never leave me.  And even then, I think my reaction to her might be, "I know she saved my dog from a hostage situation, but DAMN. Does she EVER close her mouth?"

To wit, her new ads for whatever the heck it is she's selling/promoting/designing/making in her basement while listening to a tragic mix of John Mayer and Nick Lachey tunes she's titled "Why Can't I Keep A Man? OHGODWHYGODWHY?":

J Simp is a pretty girl, okay -- although I think she's better suited to her old blonde hair -- but holy hell, did no one notice that she's got the exact same expression on her face in every one of these photos? She looks like she's trying to do long division in her head.

I'll say this for Paris Hilton: she may be a spoiled jailbird with an unbelievable sense of entitlement, but at least the girl knows how to make an entrance:

[Photo: Splash News]

No Amanda Bynes-like skulking into a Steve + Barry's in a hoodie for her, oh no. (Confidential to Amanda Bynes: sorry for all the grief lately. I actually really find you adorable and charming.  But apparently your clothing line enrages me in a kind of irrational way.  Just stick to movies where you talk Colin Firth into wearing leather pants.) No, Paris arrives places (ie: Kitson) to promote her clothing line (oy) in an armored vehicle  dressed like the offspring of a mermaid and an Old Navy coin purse.  She's so SHINY and sparkly and obvious, wearing what Las Vegas would look like if it were a dress, that, in a way, I have to hand it to her for, at least, not being totally boring. And then put my sunglasses on, because if the sun hits her the wrong way, we're all going to be blinded.

When I was on vacation recently, I saw a girl out on the town wearing a strapless denim jumpsuit that came right up under her boobs, buttoned all the way down to her crotch, and ended somewhere north of her ankles. I thought to myself, "If only she were famous -- then I would take a picture of this and put it on GFY." ]

Well, actually, in all honesty, the first thing I thought was, "SWEET JESUS, NO, WHAT WAS SHE THINKING, THAT IS SO UNFLATTERING! GOD, I NEED A DIET COKE." And after wrestling momentarily with the loophole that that she could have been locally famous, and thereby eligible, I gave up and kept walking on my thirsty way, not wanting to devote any more of my day to that accursed denim beast.

Plus, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I saw it again and I needed to preserve my strength.

[Photo: Splash News]

This one's slightly different, but the insidious spirit is the same. Although I admit, I expected to see it on Fergie, an established fan of high-waisted misbehavior, and not the adorable Elise Neal. I am not sure what evil miscreant decided to tell girls that squeezing your ass and thighs and all your other lovely curves into what amounts to denim sausage-casing would be a wonderful, wise thing. I kind of want to throw a shaving-cream pie in that person's face. When I look at this photo, I think, "Aw, she seems happy. That won't last once she walks past a mirror. Or tries to sit down and loses all circulation through her midriff. And then realizes there's no room in that thing for her to sit down and have a snack. And then passes out." See? Only sad endings come with pants like these.

So, Amanda Bynes is still on her Dear horror tour, making it yet ever more clear that she needs to stick to acting, as there's really not a huge hole in the Boring and Cheap Looking Casual Wear That I Could Pick Up at the Student Union Between Psych and Poli Sci When I Get Cold arena:

I mean, other than the fact that she suddenly looks about ten years older than she actually is, she looks....you know, okay. Fine. Not naked. But it's kind of unbelievable to me that we're all supposed to pretend that this stuff is at all special, or interesting, the way clothing ought to be if it's marketed as being specially designed by someone special. Let's be honest. Essentially, this is just random crap that you wear for three months before burying it at the very bottom of your laundry basket and then find when you're looking for the other sock with the pumpkins on it around Halloween, and you go, "dude, I totally forgot I owned this!"  And then you throw it back in with the rest of the dirty laundry and forget about it again.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with basic generic hoodies and tees -- hello, what else are we supposed to work out in? -- and I find actor- or model-designed clothing lines to be theoretically kind of hilarious and entertaining, but DAMN this stuff is BORING. Whoever designed this stuff for Amanda Bynes could not have been less invested in making her look like she knows what she's doing, and, frankly, she herself doesn't even look that stoked. I mean, this is the epitome of what Tyra's talking about when she tells a model she's got Dead Eyes. So either Amanda is irked by the way this whole thing is unraveling (as, clearly, I seem to be. I never would have thought I'd get so agitated about Amanda Bynes's boring sportswear. God, I want to tell me to go outside.) or she's actually gone and got herself some baby Botox. Let's all pray to God it's the former.

Dear Joel,

Congratulations on impending fatherhood. Although it's a little weird to think that the guy who dated Hilary Duff before she was legal is now starting a family (and would presumably beat up any horny twenty-something jackhole who tried any of that on HIS theoretical daughter), but we're fairly sure you'll take to it, since you seem nice to your girlfriends and you like to defend their honor and such. Also, you hate Spencer, and as the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend -- or at least, the drinking buddy I invite out once a month so that we can knock back a couple cold ones and talk about how the object of our shared loathing keeps finding ways to out-dicksmack himself. (I mean, probably charging your probably fake engagement ring for your probably staged not-quite-proposal on your friend's credit card and then tossing the box at your probably doomed fiance and saying, "I don't know which finger it goes on," or some shit, so that she has to do the honors herself? Pretty pricky, Spencer "Puts The 'Prat' In" Pratt.)

But, back to the matter at hand: Joel, what I'd really like to congratulate you on is the act of knocking up Nicole Richie.

[Photo: Splash News]

Getting her pregnant seemed like a scientific impossibility, so unless (or maybe even if) you took a page from that old Aaron Spelling soap Sunset Beach and employed a top-secret turkey baster, that is some magical sperminating you did. Pat yourself on the wang for that one.

Even though babies are cute, though, I would mostly like to express gratitude for the fact that your womb fertilizing has made her look so much better. The pregnancy weight is helping tremendously. Generic Hollywood Starlet Hairstyle No. 2 is a little tired, and I won't pretend I'm not confused by the sunglasses (what is that -- half a tribute to Carrie Donovan?), but frankly, I'm just relieved she no longer could come to a full stop behind that tree and be completely concealed by it. Your sperm might have saved her life. Seriously. If the weight loss could have been due to drugs, as she implied to Diane Sawyer, and if she felt the need to state that she hasn't done any substances since finding out she was pregnant... well, let's just say that without a little Joel Juice and a lot of divine intervention, she may well have stayed that wee and unhealthy for a long time.

Hi y'all.

I don't EVEN KNOW. I mean, seriously, y'all, sometimes I wake up in the morning and it's like 3:30 and the new nanny is watching Oprah and and the kids are running around and screaming and wanting things from me and I just think, "DAMN, BRITNEY. What have you gotten yourself IN TO NOW?"

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Because I really thought that when I divorced Kevin, Justin would come back in and marry me or maybe Colin Farrell or somebody else with an accent and then we'd run off to Gulfport or wherever and he'd spend all day combing my hair and Sean P and the other one would bring me Popsicles and we'd all be so happy but instead I ended up shaving my head and then some other stuff happened that I don't totally remember but I'm pretty sure most of it was my mama's fault, like I never would have done that whole thing with OK Magazine if she had LOVED ME MORE or something. I'm pretty sure I read that in a magazine right next to a story about how I am having a lesbian affair with my assistant which is TOTALLY UNFAIR because that only lasted like three weeks. And then people started making this whole big deal about how I wanted to whiten Sean P's teeth like they never looked at their baby's teeth and wondered why they looked so yellow or forgot to change their diapers. I am a WORKING MOTHER, Y'ALL. It's NOT EASY keeping up APPEARANCES and taking care of A BABY. Two babies. However many babies. And my face is my FORTUNE, Y'ALL. I am an ENTERTAINER. I have to go out and BE ENTERTAINING and I think I am A SUCCESS. For serious, have you seen how many people take my picture every night? It's because I am HOT.

For serious, I am WORKING SO HARD to make a life for me and my family of however many kids it is and all I hear is BLAH BLAH BLAH LOOK AT HER HAIR. WHERE ARE HER PANTS? WHY DOES SHE WEAR THOSE ILL-FITTING CHEAP-LOOKING UNFLATTERING BROWN BOOTS ALL OVER THE PLACE? ISN'T THAT A SHIRT AND NOT A DRESS? BLAAAAAH. I just want all y'all to SHUT UP. I MEAN it. If I want to have a lesbian affair with one of my employees and get drunk in front of my kids and pay my neighbor fifty bucks to Google "baby plastic surgery" for me so no one finds out that I'm thinking about getting the little one a chin implant THAT'S MY BUSINESS.  And so what if everyone finds out that Kevin used to grind up my medication and hide it in my milkshakes and that's why I didn't used to act quite as crazy? Does that make him some kind of HERO? Just because he gives the kids CARROT STICK THINGS instead of NUGGETS? Kids LOVE nuggets! Everyone knows that! Do I have to write a book? Maybe I will write a book. I'll write a book called KIDS LOVE NUGGETS by Britney Lynne Spears or whatever my middle name is and it'll be a hit just like Harry Potter and THEN WON'T EVERYONE BE SORRY THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME QUIT DRINKING. HA!

Suck on it, toolsheds. YEAH, I MEAN YOU.

Britney

Kanye West is:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

a) Hopeful these sexy glasses make it safe for him to look directly at a total eclipse... of the HEART, LADIES!

b) Learning the harsh life lesson that sporting giant, mysterious eyewear and a hat does not in fact render a celebrity unrecognizable;

c) Obsessed with peeking through venetian blinds;

d) No longer allowed to wear those while shopping for cardigans;

e) Hammered

You are in a tragic state of affairs when you're attending an Australian awards show, as this young lady is, and photographed on the red carpet, but your name doesn't even pop up on Google.*

I'm told this lovely girl wearing the dramatic window treatment is named Amli, but Google claims that she is: a company providing short-term, furnished corporate apartments; the Association of Medical Laboratory Immunologists; the government's Abandoned Mine Lands Initiative; American Medical and Life Insurance;  and a town in India and/or Norway. Which makes me think that when she sits down with her team, she needs to fire both her stylist AND her publicist.

* Thanks to our crack team of Australian readers, we now know that this is Amali Ward, Australian Idol contestant, who needs to talk to her PR flack about making sure she knows the correct spelling of her client's name.

It's no secret that we love Mandy Moore and her wholesome yet talented Regular Girl Shtick.  I enjoy that when she had a terrible break-up, she holed herself up in a cabin in the woods. Who amongst us HASN'T thought to themselves, "I'm so miserable right now. I just want to move to a shack in the middle of nowhere and raise alpacas," you know? Similarly, who amongst us hasn't had an evening alone in our apartment, bored, during which we decide to see how we look with really dark sexpot make-up and that sexy dress we bought at Forever 21 despite the fact that it's actually, um, basically underwear re-imaged as a D&G knockoff because, you know, it was just $21?

And then you're all gussied up and you look at yourself in the mirror and think, "DAMN. I look hot. And also like a totally different person. Can I go out like this? YEAH, I CAN. I look HOT. Wait. No, I can't. I don't have the guts to go out like this. I look ridiculous. I go out dressed like Charlotte York, not Samantha Jones. I am not this girl. But maybe I SHOULD be this girl. YES. NOW I AM THIS GIRL. And it's going to be FASCINATING. And SEXY. But maybe this lipstick is too dark for me."

Okay, Ashlee. It's great that you're in love -- seriously, we're all very happy for you, given what a muscular streak of misery your sister usually turns into when she's not in the tabloids hiding behind her hair while a dude pulls her around by the hand. So, be happy.

But why does love have to equal Repetitive Headgear Syndrome?

[Photo: Splash News]

We respect that, since Pete Wentz stopped so graciously telling the press that you two would only be a great love story in another lifetime and started allowing himself to be photographed wrapped all around your waist, you might be content taking a backseat for a while during his band's tour. But I feel like 7 times out of 10 that I've seen you two together lately -- usually in the pages of one of the gossip rags that winks up at me from my doorstep every week -- you have your noggin stuffed inside a fedora. (The other three times, your head is free as a bird but your hair clearly hasn't been brushed in 72 hours -- although I'm pleased to see you have at least taken a comb to it in recent memory here -- and 10 times out of 10, you are hiding half of your face somewhere in the vicinity of Pete's right ear.)

What gives, Simpson the Younger? Does Pete yank out your hair in the heat of passion? Do you just bump your head a lot? Did Ken Paves screw up your weave? If it's that last one, there ARE other hairdressers. Just because he is your sister's only friend doesn't mean you have to pay him to make your hair look so limp that you hide under a hat all the time. Free yourself.

I like to call this look WHEN ACCESSORIES ATTACK:

Cute dress, but with a giant semi-casual duffle-shaped bag and a (god-forsaken) fedora? It's like her head and hands belong to a cub reporter circa 1973, who's jumping on the Greyhound chasing a killer story, the one that'll finally make his career at the Yuma Daily Breeze. 

While, obviously, her feet belong to a sassy pre-teen Bratz fan who's suffering from some terrible neck affliction that forces her to look solely at the ground, thus necessitating cute, loud shoes that end up not matching anything else.

Oh my God, Janice.

Are you wearing...flats? What the hell, dude?  Listen, I am not against flats. As someone who once wore heels every single day to...you know, everything, I can relate to the need to give the old knees and back a break every now and then. And flats are trendy and cute with all kinds of things. Just not with a below-the-knee satin cocktail dress. And you know this! You know that when you're wearing flats with a skirt, you need to flash a little leg or you look stumpy and dowdy and...I mean, COME ON. You're JANICE DICKINSON. You rail against dowdiness in your sleep! You fight stumpiness in your hyperbaric chamber! Why are you doing this to me?  At least hike that skirt up into something approximating a mini and try and make this thing work.

PS: Men in belly tees make me nervous.

Do my eyes deceive me?

Is the infamous She-Beast of the Planet Stump actually pairing an awesome color with a flattering dress that shows the perfect amount of leg, all capped off with great shoes? Does she actually look... elongated? And youthful AGAIN? Is it about to rain bullfrogs?

HARVEY WEINSTEIN: So anyway, like I was saying, you are magic on Grey's Anatomy. Just magic.

ALICIA KEYS: On... excuse me?

HARVEY: The way you play the mother of that guy... you know, the one who got fired... sparks fly off the screen. I'm serious.

ALICIA: Wait, I think you might be...

HARVEY: I haven't been so turned on by an older woman since you were on Dynasty. Those were some serious turbans. Serious SEX turbans. If you hadn't been Blake's half-sister, that could've been hot, I tell ya.

ALICIA: Did you just say "sex turbans"?

HARVEY: You're goddamn right I did. Listen, let's do lunch. Or dinner. Or brunch. Except I don't care for the cantaloupe, so maybe not brunch.

ALICIA: I don't want to be rude, but I'm not...

HARVEY: Honey, I want to be in the Diahann Carroll business. Let's make it happen. You look GREAT for your age, Diahann, although we might want to rethink that spelling. It makes my intestines throb.

ALICIA: How about we spell it "Alicia Keys"? I'm 27, and I'm a singer. Seriously, you have NO idea who I am?

HARVEY: Keys? Never heard of it. But I like the cut of your jib. Not the cut of your dress, though, we'll have to change the whole thing. And the shoes -- you look lost in 1988, like you're a bitch in search of a lily pond.

ALICIA: I'll have you know I've won several...

HARVEY: Are you sure you're 27? My Nana once wore that to the pictures.

ALICIA: Well, I'm 27 if IMDb says I'm 27, you get me?

HARVEY: You've got moxie, I'll give you that. Okay, we can still do lunch -- I've been wanting to do a project. It's called Diahann Carroll: Hell Yeah. Or maybe, Bitch In Search Of A Lily Pond. It could be a documentary. Or a reality show. Or a dark revenge bodice-ripper set in the cutthroat world of Olympic archery. Quentin can direct. You in? You could play Diahann. Man, that woman could slit a jugular.

ALICIA: I don't think that happened on Dynasty. Or Julia. Or anything she did.

HARVEY: It did if I say it did. Have your people call my people. And then have them burn those clothes.

It's been a long time since we had Kelly Osbourne in our sights. I don't know what she's been doing in the meantime. I heard that she's appearing as Big Mama Morton in Chicago in the West End, and has lost weight for the role (why, I do not know, as that seems like a role which would invite NOT having to lose weight, although I guess she might just be getting in shape for all the dancing or some such.) So presumably she's been busy with, like, cardio and vocal warm-ups as well as her usual activities, which I imagine include screaming at her parents, cuddling her dogs, and combing her wigs. (Sounds like my weekend.) In fact, she seems to be coming straight from cardio here, judging from the bike shorts:

[Photo: Splash News]

Admittedly, if my gym offered Glam Spinning, during which we all got to wear sequined tunics and heels and were being led by a fantastically be-wigged drag queen, I would totally go to the gym more. By which I mean, at all.

So, we've covered Ashley's Catwoman Takes The Coliseum boots. And since they like to be considered independently of each other, and we are nothing if not obliging, it's now time to turn our attention to the sartorial trevails of Mary-Kate Olsen.

Yep, nothing to see here -- Mary-Kate still looks like her favorite place to shop is the Neverland Ranch Staying-Out-Of-Country Clearance Sale, and the world is therefore still spinning on its axis without incident.

I've already pointed out how Gwynnie Paltrow totally looks like a dude on the cover of this month's W. In fact, a couple of brilliant readers wrote in to point out that not only does she look like a dude, she looks like Death Eater and noteworthy blond, Lucius Malfoy, which is one of those cross-pop-cultural references I really wish I'd thought of on my own.

Now, generally, we don't talk about editorial spreads in fashion magazines, because, you know, the models are supposed to look all hunched over and pained, whilst wearing pig heads or pretending to be dead or whatever. That's just the way it works, and it's often rather cool and fantastical or, at the very least, moderately diverting on an airplane.

On the other hand, do we ever need to see a shot of Gwyneth Paltrow petulantly feeding a rat from sippy cup while making what I presume is an nude dead-lip-hating bitchface?

No.

Nor do we ever need to see her with what appear to be spoons for ears:

Sure, I suppose it's possible to draw  a line between these two photographs that encompasses some sort of weird Kafka-meets-Stuart Little tale, in which Gwynnie both nurtures the rat and BECOMES the rat, but it is my contention that a fashion spread which would work well enough with a random gorgeous blank-faced model just feels almost unbearably pretentious with an actress. We get it, Gwyns: you're deep. I liked you better when you wouldn't shut up about yoga.

Have you ever had one of those days when you just want to enjoy a summer evening breeze bare-legged, but unfortunately, you shaved your legs in a steamy shower after three margaritas and did a horribly crazy, botched job of it, and you lack the time and sobriety to try mowing the lawn a second time? So you're stuck either wearing boots, or wearing cute heels and hoping nobody stares at your calves and wonders if you are a huge The Tudors fan, because why else would you decide to recreate the leafy maze at Hampton Court on your shins?

Well, thank Ashley Olsen, then, because she's got just the footwear solution for you.

Perfect! They cover a multitude of Schick sins and still let you air out at least half the skin on your legs. As a bonus, if this turns into a toga party or a sequel to Gladiator spontaneously breaks out in the middle of the nightclub, you are completely ready for your close-up.

Shoes aside, the rest of her ensemble is actually pretty fetching and chic on her, with the tiny exception of the way the skirt makes me want to yank it down so that it no longer blouses out over the top of her cummerbund. Still, it takes guts to wear a cummerbund. In fact, if she'd worn less aggressive shoes, this whole thing would actually work for me. I like a lot of the risks she takes.

Especially if that is actually a box of crackers in her hand -- being seen out on the town with something that you put in your mouth and swallow? Something that has texture? And isn't indecent -- or, since for many in this town crackers are indecent, something that isn't going to get anyone arrested for exposure? Who'd have thought?

"Why, hello, my beloved paparazzi friends! Er, I mean, 'god! why won't you vultures leave me alone? I just want to eat a quiet, undisturbed meal at Koi while wearing the world's most vulgar fedora. Don't you people understand that I am a PERSON?! A PERSON and not some kind of COMMODITY.

[Photo: Splash News]

Unlike, say, the item I am shilling in this ad that I just HAPPEN to be holding at the very best angle for you to photograph. Aren't you fortunate that I just MAGICALLY happened to have this magazine with me -- not even in my handbag, as I don't appear to be carrying one because presumably I keep my money in my bra -- but here, with me, in my hands, open to the exact right page. You're so lucky, evil paparazzi, to have gotten this completely candid shot! Now, leave me alone. I'll see you tomorrow, outside of Hyde, at 10:45. I'll be the one wearing neon green shorts and a coconut bra."

Obviously, Charlize Theron is really, really attractive. Let's not even pretend that she isn't. She's one of those people who'd look semi-decent in a wooden barrel, inducing someone somewhere to gasp "I had no idea that barrels are so deliciously cylindrical! I must have one for fall!" So, sometimes it's hard to me to tell if her outfit is actually cute, or if I were to, say, put it on my own body I would react thusly: "OH MY GOD NO. NO NO NO NO. GET IT OFF MEEEEE."

Like this one. It's bright and shiny and blouse-y and bag-ish and I am distracted by all the gathering and pleating. But she sort of carries it off, no? Or yes? Or no.

Sharon Lawrence has aged rather well. I know this because, among other reasons, I watched that whole Hidden Palms fiasco and they beat us over the head with the notion that her character was a great-looking older woman in deep sexual heat who could pull with the best of 'em (even if they were sometimes stereotypical asshat younger dudes who wanted to steal her money; the point is, she was considered a dish). To which I say, way to go. Get yours. Live the dream. Don't give up on yourself.

[Photo: Splash News]

No, no, Sharon, we said DON'T give up on yourself. What happened here? The jacket and the bag could have been so chic with a cocktail dress, or even a fitted shirt and jeans. The yellow Forever 21-style top might have worked on its own, with the right bottoms. And the Ann Taylor For Geriatrics pants... never could have worked, ever, actually, and are the ill-fitting icing on this badly proportioned cake. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're made from my grandmother's kitchen wallpaper. It's distressing. You're a lovely 56-year old lady**, Shaz -- you have no need to dress your lower half like you're sipping cheesecake martinis on the lanai with Blanche Deveraux.

** So apparently, I wasn't expecting math to be on the exam, and I didn't study. Sharon is 46. So, while she would have been a SUPER hot 56-year old, she is merely a hot 46-year old, and may this knowledge keep her from having us killed for accidentally adding a decade to her. It does, however, make her fondness for Rose Nyland's trousers somewhat less explicable.

It's well-documented that we're pretty fond of Posh Spice, and even though that one-hour special felt a bit like someone threw all the footage in a blender, it still made us want to hang out with her and go shopping while the blow-up sex toy dressed as her rides around town in a car fooling nobody.

But even our love of Posh has not prompted us to copy her clothes. Or her hair. Or her boobs. Not so for Big Brother UK's Chanelle, who not only does herself up in Posh's image on purpose, but aspires to be a Posh Imitator AND shares a sound-alike name with the maker of the famous hot pants she's aping:

[Photo: Splash News]

Interestingly, in her aforelinked bio, she mentions that she hates her thighs. Which, sing it, sister -- I don't know that many women who don't. But obviously that hasn't deterred her from reaching for her dream; after all, it is sort of hard to be a professional Posh clone without whipping those bad boys out at every opportunity.

Unfortunately for her, though, Chanelle comes off a whole lot more like Mary Stuart Masterson, if she had suffered a head injury. Although, that's a much smaller celebrity-tribute market, so she could rocket to greatness much faster. Perhaps Chanelle should consider recommitting herself to the memory of Some Kind of Wonderful. I'm sure she'd look good wearing somebody's future. That way, at least she'd have one.

Of all the girls on The Hills -- Relateable-Girl-With-TERRIBLE-Taste-in-Dudes Lauren, Spencer-Lover and-Bad-Idea-Jeans-Wearer Heidi, Tall-Quiet-Seemingly-Very-Well-Adjusted Whitney -- Audrina is the least well-characterized. We saw more of her last season (and since she's living with Lauren now, we're probably going to see more of her this upcoming season), but I still don't have a handle on what she's actually like at all. She seems sweet, and quiet, and she's probably a good friend as she seems to be a good listener and sympathetic. She also never really talks about herself on camera, which might mean that she's considerably smarter than she seems (which, honestly, isn't all that smart).

But, I ask you, if she's so smart, why the multicolored sequined pillowcase?

[Photo: Splash News]

I am not at all adverse to sequins -- like a magpie, I love things that are shiny -- but all the shimmery plus all the colors adds up to overkill. It looks like she's wearing the world's most formal circus tent.

Generally, I prefer not to fug people who are just out running errands on a summer day. I think we've all probably had that day where we realize we are out of Diet Coke or craving a chai latte and need to run out and take care of this immediately, throwing on shoes and running out before thinking about the fact that we haven't shaved our legs, thereby forcing us to throw on the pair of knee-high boots inexplicably sitting in the car and creating a really crazy and sort of alarming assemblage of clothes in the vein of "blind hippie punk-rock assassin." And then you laugh with your friends later about how you totally could have fugged yourself. Ahem. If that ever had happened. And then you conclude, "Well, whatever, I was just running errands, I'll was out in public for three seconds, and nobody was looking at me, and hey, at least I was wearing a bra."

That last part is key.

[Photo: Splash News]

As I said, I fully understand chucking something on so you can dash out for a caffeine fix. That's between you and your closet. However, this is getting into pretty perilous territory here, Debra, because I'm pretty sure you didn't make a pit stop for boob tape.

Now, it's very nice of you to wave to the photographer, or perhaps the fan standing right in front of the photographer who is waving a copy of The Starter Wife and screaming, "YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE WITH JOE MANTEGNA because the actor who played the homeless dude was REALLY TERRIBLE AND I'VE GOT CARDBOARD IN MY HOUSE THAT'S MORE CHARISMATIC!" But you maybe should have figured out a way to wear a bra with this so you could wave to your heart's content without undue risk, unless of course you plan to act from here on out under the name Nips Ahoy. Which I actually sort of like, for when you decide to star in nautical and possibly pirate-themed soft-core action flicks.

Still, assuming for a second that you'd prefer to keep your current name and career, may I suggest what we mortals call a "tank top," available at Old Navy for 2 for $15? You have $15, right? If not, have you tried bartering with your Emmy? I'm sure you could melt it down if need be.

Something about Kate Bosworth's dress looks quite clean and sophisticated...

... and yet, something about it looks like her mummifier abandoned the job halfway through because he or she ran out of embalming fluid, and anyway, Top Chef was on, and you kind of have to watch that show while you're taking a meal break or else you'll get too unbearably hungry. Something of which Kate Bosworth might actually now be aware, since she looks a lot healthier than the last time we talked about her.

That doesn't change the fact that I can't decide whether this is sleek or a body bandage, but hey, it makes me feel good about the sandwich I'm about to make.

Dear Amanda Bynes:

Listen, I watched She's The Man. Sure, it was on a plane, but unlike Employee of the Month, it never once tempted me to unlatch the emergency door mid-flight to escape. In fact, I may have recommended it to others, with the old tried and true "hey, it won't make you want to hurtle yourself into space. Plus, Channing Tatum!" You are a cute girl, albeit in an increasing generic Blonde Tan sort of way. And I am not one to find fault with a black minidress.

But your companion here -- let's call her Nearly Headless Nicole -- is wearing what appears to be EVERY SINGLE ITEM from your new clothing line, Bitten. Er, wait. That's SJP's clothing line. From your new clothing line, Dear. Whatever.

NHN also looks like this might be her first month in college and she's had a bit of a run-in with the concept of separating her laundry, thus turning everything this dingy, tragic shade of gray. Girl, that's what happens when the dude you've been hooking up with tosses his black socks into your whites.  You need constant vigilance with those guys. You'll also get back to your dorm room and he'll be smearing your toothpaste on a zit and sniffing your underwear. Just so you know.

[Photo: Splash News]

LILY ALLEN: So, wait, let's go over this again -- am I supposed to be mimicking Kelly Osbourne in this video?

DIRECTOR: No, it's obviously very different. You have longer hair.

LILY: Right.

PURPLE-HAIRED GIRL: Does anyone want this welder's mask?

DIRECTOR: And different sunglasses.

LILY: Right.

DIRECTOR: And -- this is the really crucial bit -- different music.

LILY: Right.

DIRECTOR: So, not like Kelly Osbourne at all, actually.

P-HG: Or maybe it's a gas mask...? Might look kind of Armageddon-cool.

LILY: So let's get this straight. Yes, I like to flip-flop between cute dresses and bad trousers sometimes, but now I'm wearing a party dress and mangy Doc Marten boots, doing the whole punk princess bit that Kelly Osbourne sort of birthed back into the public consciousness and then Avril Lavigne might have ripped off. But because I'm singing different lyrics and my hair isn't the same, nobody will stop and wonder if maybe I'm being derivative?

DIRECTOR: Right!

LILY: Sure, whatever. I'm cute, I look quite thin actually, my hair's shiny... it'll be fine.

P-HG: How about a knee-high? Could make a nice glove.

DIRECTOR: God, you really get it.

P-HG: Thanks!

DIRECTOR: Not you.

"Hi you guys OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH for the 'Best Choreography' nomination! ... Sorry, I'm still a little out of breath, the bell rang a little late at the end of Algebra and there were NO CABS and my backpack is really heavy because they haven't invented a thin Physics textbook yet, but I'm here now and I can read out some other nominations... huh, I see I didn't get anything for my actual MUSIC, even though I'm adorable and charming and talented, but that's okay, because this kid in my AP English class wrote a sonnet the other day about my character in Stomp The Yard and so I think I'm just going to go win an Oscar instead. Still, I'd like to thank everyone at MTV, and my Mom, and Ms. Thompson for giving us a free Chemistry period the other day -- I'm totally going to write a song about you! -- and most importantly I'd like to thank the fans. Actually, I have a little something in my bag for them..."

Everybody loves a disco ball. It's a wee sphere of glee. I have a small replica of one hanging from my ceiling right now, and it always makes me want either to boogie down or put on some roller skates.

I'm going to name it "Beyonce."

Because it would have been about as flattering if she'd just poked her legs and arms through an actual disco ball and worn it on-stage. Dreamgirls is over, B. Let it die with your Oscar hopes, okay?

Why has Lily Allen suddenly taken it upon herself to provide a constant visual aide to my Fugology Master's Thesis The Juxtaposition of  Proportion and Frame; A Layman's Guide to Avoiding Stumpiness?

It's nice of her to try to help, but seriously. Save yourself, kid.  Run from the stumpifying overly long and oversized shirt/dress/coat and those jeans that are crying out for a tailor's loving touch, Lily, run from them! They just want to make you look three feet tall and seven years old. You don't need that in your life. You need clothing that loves you, and makes you look less as though you've got some terrible wasting disease of the legs.  So, run. Run to a tailor! Run to a Barney's Denim Bar. Run! Run to properly proportioned pants/tops/coat-thingies. Run as fast as your wee stumps will carry you!

I'm not sure how Melora Hardin does it.

I really think it takes a gift to be that gorgeous, yet still manage to exude Eau de Hausfrau at almost every opportunity. Is this a repurposed maternity frock? Or did she borrow this baggy headache from her character's wardrobe, now that Jan has no job except taking care of Michael and is planning to stay at home all day and watch soaps and wear stretch pants? I feel like this is the hideous dress equivalent of stretch pants: comfortable, sure, but maybe not for Outside.

Still, there could be a market for her gift. Britney Spears, for example, could use a little hausfrau in her life at this point. Maybe Melora can take Brit under her paisley-clad wing and teach her how to hide her goods once in a blue moon. And Britney can show Melora where her waist is hiding. It's fashion symbiosis. Everybody wins.

I feel like I make an embarrassing revelation in this space about every three weeks. The whole Ghost Whisperer thing being the most embarrassing thus far.  But here's another one: I like Gwyneth Paltrow.  I know she's been accused of snobbery, pretentiousness, being an unbearable beeyotch, being annoyingly obsessed with macrobiotics, being the first major celeb to widely publicize the Brazilian and thus dooming legions of women to the agony of ripping out every hair they have with hot wax, etc, etc, etc and I don't doubt that all these things are true. But I think she's pretty, and I (used to) love her hair (would it kill her to get a trim?), and Apple was my most favorite celebrity child until Suri Cruise came along and bewitched me with her adorableness, and her outfits in The Talented Mr Ripley are AMAZING.

Which is why I was rather stunned to see her looking like this on the cover of W:

She is literally unrecognizable. I know her name is right there, splashed across her chest, but I am still not entirely sure that this is her. I feel like it might actually be a dude. A totally fierce dude, yes, but a dude just the same. And while I actually long for the day when a totally fierce dude lands on the cover of W, I really don't think Gwynnie wanted people to have to stare at her face for twenty minutes, reconfiguring it in their minds, so as to convince themselves that it was actually her. If this is the way she's gearing up for a comeback, as the cover promises,  that comeback is going to crash and burn.

MISCHA: Do you think people remember that I used to have an acting career, or do they just think I'm one of those girls who hangs out with Nicole Richie a lot?

RIHANNA:...that's a rhetorical question, right? Because I'd hate it if we had to get all awkward.

MISCHA:  This dress is a little too short, right? I look uncomfortable, don't I? I have the same expression on my face as the time I found out they were going to make me wear that hat, don't I? I think that hat was the beginning of the end of my career.

RIHANNA: My dress is short, too, Mischa!

MISCHA: But you're WORKING IT. I look like I just realized that I left my hotpants in the back of the limo.

RIHANNA: I do look pretty cute, now that you mention it. Even with a cast on my foot! Does this mean we get to talk about me a little bit? Are you going to ask how I get my complexion so gorgeous?

MISCHA: Oh my God, are you implying that my FACE looks bad now, too? RIHANNA, SOMETIMES I THINK MY FACE IS ALL I'VE GOT.

RIHANNA: No, no. No. You're still pretty, Mischa. I mean, your hair is all kind of up in there, but...I mean, just look at your reflection in your dress, if you're really worried about it.

MISCHA: I knew there was a reason I bought this!

In some ways, I miss Big Brother UK. I'm hooked on the U.S. version this summer, and the editors are typically smart and funny about the way they put the episodes together, but there's something so divinely unwatchably hilarious about the unpolished British version, which feels like raw footage stuck together by a monkey and then beefed up with voice over that says, "Geoffrey has been making a sandwich for 10 minutes," or "Jazz has been in the bathroom for an hour." I wanted to rip my ears off during the five-minute chunks I was able to digest, and yet, I look fondly upon the whole thing and often wish I could toss my least-favorite U.S. contestants into the fray over there. The voice-over would be all, "Amber has been crying for 52 hours." And the Brits would eat Kail alive. 

Luckily, we run across photos of the evictees, so it feels like keeping up with Big Brother UK without actually having to watch it. On that tip, meet Shanessa Reilly. Her "likes" are listed as sex, hair extensions, and squeezing spots, and she allegedly once revenged herself on an ex by piercing his ears while he was asleep. [He must have been passed out, or else he could not have been asleep for very long.] She also presumably enjoys dressing like the lead singer in a naughty Dreamgirls revue being staged in a back alley in London:

I like to think that, during her final episode, the voice-over guy spent a lot of time saying things like, "Shanessa has been flashing her labia for 40 minutes," and "Shanessa has needed to go to the bathroom for 18 minutes." That dress is one serious anatomy lesson. And I'm sure that, on some level, mad scientist Tina Knowles is pissed she didn't think of it first. Move the slit over to the right and add more glitter -- or, better turn it all into hot pants -- and that might've ended up on-stage at the VMAs.

I swear, this totally hurts me more than it hurts you.

Dear David Anders -- or, as we call you at GFY HQ, Sexy Evil Sark (Intern George loves the Alias) -- you are way too handsome and charismatic to show up places dressed like the time my college boyfriend found out that his apartment was going to be entirely without heat in the middle of finals week:

"But I don't have TIME to call the gas company," he told me. "I have to study for O CHEM! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT TEST IS GOING TO BE? Okay. It's all going to be fine. Could you just hand me that sweater? And that other sweater? And my blazer? Thank you."

Which do you think Elle is feeling more red-faced about today?

That they're promoting the successful rehabilitation of poor little Lilo -- maybe the pull quote should have read, "I'm glad I went to rehab -- I needed to get away from everyone and I didn't know now. In fact, I think I'll go back!" -- or that they've made her look exactly like Dina "The 'Everyone' Lindsay Needed to Get Away From" Lohan?

Oh, M-K. Just a few days ago, I was singing your praises. And now, like a rebellious child chafing under the approval of a parent you would prefer to annoy, you have chucked your clean cheeriness right out the window and replaced it with a variety of items that I'm pretty sure you found crumpled in a series of increasingly mustier balls underneath your bed:

Speaking of balls, there's something about your hat/hair combo which reminds me weirdly of former Mischa Barton lover Cisco Adler:

Now that I think about it, adding a little Cisco to your life -- as a boyfriend, a stylistic inspiration or (HEAVENS FORFEND) the both -- is probably an incredibly effective way to irk the parents or parental figures in your life (plus is cheaper than drugs, smarter than getting arrested, and more advisable than attempting to bleach your toddler's teeth).  I hate to give selfishly-motivated man-advice, doll, but it might be easier on everyone's eyeballs if you channeled your rebelliousness into the dudes rather than the duds. (See what I did there? Apparently, it's Corny Wordplay Monday.)

I still miss Nicole Kidman's red hair -- can anyone explain to me why she and Lindsay Lohan refuse to return to the hair color that both flatters them best and truly sets them apart? I realize red is expensive to keep up because it fades so fast, but it's not like either of those people are hurting for cash, and bleaching it blond isn't all that cheap or low-maintenance either, so please, ladies (ESPECIALLY the uber-generic washed-up Dina-clone-lookin' Lindsay), get back on the titian horse -- but I have to say, I think that a) that aside was way too long, and b) Mrs. Urban's hair looks really sleek and lovely right now. She's even got the blonde so that it washes her out less. It reminds me of how awesome she was in To Die For.

But she certainly doesn't look very happy. Did someone just call her "a taller Naomi Watts-type"? Did someone put that shot of sweaty Tom grooving on Katie up on a big screen? Did Keith cancel on her so he could make an appointment with his chest waxer?

Um, here's the thing. I've seen lots of pictures of Anne Hathaway in my time, right?

Did she always look so...rabbit-y? I'm pretty sure the answer is no.  Which makes me wonder if perhaps her rather over-bite-y expression here is not actually due to some kind of magical Two Front Teeth Extra Toothifying Serum that she accidentally took, mistaking it for mouthwash, but rather to the fact that maybe a certain famously bobbed editrix made an off-hand comment in the Conde Nast elevator to the effect that maybe it might be, shall we say, hilariously devilish if Ms Hathaway didn't exactly look her very best while splashed across America's newsstands. Just this once.

"Oh, dang it," Amy Grant appears to be thinking.

"I totally didn't mean to wear this out of the house. What can I do to distract people from my summer weight Texas Tuxedo? I know. I'll do The Robot."

But Amy's not the only one displaying an unfortunate top/bottom combination:

Why must Lucy Davis make life such a roller-coaster? I don't like roller-coasters. Well, okay, I can do Space Mountain and The Matterhorn and Thunder Mountain, and all those other fairly wimpy coasters, and I can cope with a log flume. But anything more severe than that and you will know what I had for lunch AND possibly what dinner was last night.

So, see, my stomach really doesn't appreciate being jerked around, Lucy. We already know your skin color swings wildly between "Psychedelic" and "Recognizable In Nature," but I have no idea what's going on with you lately.

Earlier this year, you looked perfectly adorable.

A little spider-lashy, but honestly, who hasn't had that happen at one time or another? It's going to be okay. Just throw out that mascara and try again. But otherwise, she just seems sort of youthful and relaxed, and it's nice. This is Lucy Davis, the fresh-faced and delightfully unemaciated actress who's making a name for herself across the pond on network TV.

This, then.. well, perhaps this is actually Lucy Davis's secret twin.

"God, I wonder if we can we stop for a second. I'm getting a nasty crick in my back. I'm sitting here rubbing my freaking BACK in the middle of a photo shoot and nobody even cares. Whoever told me to lean against this wall for this entire shoot is going to be FIRED by the end of the day. My... OW! MOTHERF&%*ER! My ass is falling asleep, I chugged two Diet Cokes and now I kind of have to go to the bathroom, and now my freaking KNEE IS GIVING OUT and I can't even focus my eyes in the same direction. Deep breath, Sarah Michelle, stay calm, stay on top of it, try to make it look like you're giving yourself sexy massages... Okay, shit, this position is really uncomfortable. I'm pulling the muscles in my neck and all the tension there is giving me a migraine, and now my sternum looks two feet longer than it should somehow, and yet this person is STILL TAKING PICTURES OF ME LIKE THIS?!? This photographer will never work in this country again. Yes, that's right, ass-clown, I'm going to get you canned so hard your GRANDCHILDREN will be unemployed for eternity. Oh, it's going to be so sweet, I can almost smile through the rage. I'm coming for you. Buffy is going to vampire-slay your sorry ass into the next dimension of Hell. And send you my frickin' medical bills."

Beloved Intern George,

I'm not really fugging you. I promise we're not mad at you. We could NEVER be mad at you, unless, I suppose, we found out you'd been eating babies in your spare time, but I'm confident that won't turn out to be the case, because a) you are only a cannibal in the sense that you devour our inner demons and spit them back out as sunshine and rainbows, and b) you don't seem to be eating that much of anything these days, frankly.

The British press is concerned. Readers are worried. And while we know it's not exactly fair to compare you in the throes of Oscar weight-gain to you now several years later, it can't be denied that your neck cords are looking unusually pronounced lately. We could pluck those and play beautiful music. [Which, by the way, maybe we should do when you get back from your summer vacation, just because we haven't done that yet and we know how much you love how ticklish you are.]

Mostly, we're just writing to make sure you take care of yourself when you aren't under our watchful eyes. Remember all the things we taught you about pasta? And sandwiches? And pasta sandwiches? It's like the New World natives told those pesky, lanky Brits when they landed: "A carbohydrate plate a day keeps the Adam's apple at bay." Seeing you like this makes me feel like we sent you off to boarding school without any lunch money, and you're reduced to eating table scraps and whatever you can bargain for from the other students in exchange for staying up all night and finishing their essays on "Nebuchadnezzar: Tyrant or Titan?".

Hugs and love,
Heather

I have a couple of questions about Mary-Kate Olsen's look here. 1) Is that a man's Hanes tee shirt, or one of the super expensive tee shirts from her fashion line, The Row? 2) If it IS one of the super expensive tee shirts from The Row, why does it look so much like a man's Hanes tee shirt? 3) The crucifix is very classic Madonna, and I can't dock a girl for that, can I? 4) While I'd never expect to see M-K show up somewhere in a frilly party dress -- and don't want to. It's not her style -- and I'm pleased that she's showing some skin and not draped in pile of fluttering robes, will we ever see her legs, do you think?

The final question is mostly rhetorical:

This is Calico Cooper. Under most circumstances, this is where I would comment that the cat I had in elementary school was named Calico. She was also a calico cat. I named her myself. At 7 years old, I was not creative enough to name her, say, Mrs Whiskers Waddlelypants or something. This was around the same time that my friend Andrea's brother named their rabbit "Jessica" (this was, mind you, pre-Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) the day their parents accidentally ran it over with the car. As a child, it is somewhat traumatic when something with your name get murdered. And because Calico Cooper's father is Alice Cooper, I feel that commenting on her name might get ME run over, just like that poor little rabbit.

Instead, I'll just say that you'd think Alice Cooper's kid would have bypassed the whole shorty Grandpa Robe and Aerosoles thing.

Of course.

Of COURSE Carrot Top wears manpris (and deploys finger-guns). Why WOULDN'T he wear something douchey? I almost feel comforted, like there is one true thing I can cling to during this time of global turmoil.

Although... from this angle, I guess they are sort of in pants purgatory, caught between shorts and outright manpri-ness. They do at least make his legs look stumpy, regardless of what you call them.

Natasha Bedingfield is apparently on some kind of Fug Goodwill Tour, as she's appearing all sort of places looking rather the worse for wear:

I would have KILLED for this outfit in eighth grade. It would have slid so nicely into rotation with my Guess acid-washed mini and matching jean jacket (worn with a huge white tee shirt, of course, maybe one of my dad's, which I'd stolen and covered with puffy paint flowers and stars, all courtesy of my awesome aunt who used to buy me stuff that my mother would not, like jeans that zipped up at the ankles, and banana clips) and my knee-length sweat-shirt material skirt and giant, be-shoulder-padded Esprit sweater.  And then, the next year, when my school decided we were all going to wear uniforms, I would stare at it sadly every morning as I reluctantly bended to the will of The Man -- WHO WAS KILLING OUR SARTORIAL CREATIVITY, I would rail every morning to my parents, in between complaining that locker searches were a TOTAL violation of our civil rights, while they hid their amusement behind coffee cups. And then when I realized that, actually, uniforms are awesome because you can totally use those twenty minutes you used to spend standing in front of the closet trying to decide what to wear to school SLEEPING or finishing your geometry homework or gossiping about how that sophomore girl TOTALLY called Loveline last night, OHMYGOD DID YOU HEAR HER?, I would maybe be a little sad that I couldn't show off my awesome giant cameo shirt, but mostly, I would be okay with that because, um, giant cameo shirts are totally out and it would totally clash with my more awesome paisley Gap book bag.

So you know that, next week, Natasha here is totally going to show up somewhere rocking the finest in Sue Mills High School Uniform Attire and carrying a vintage paisley Gap book bag and then -- okay, I'll admit it. She will have officially blown my mind.

I've realized what it is about super high-waisted denim that bothers me.

(Sorry, random actress who appeared on one episode of How I Met Your Mother, which I'm sure I watched but don't remember you from, but you are going to have to be my visual aide today. PS: My grammar in that sentence is AWESOME. Conjugate that!) It's not that high-waisted denim tends to give most of us a more prominent belly pooch than we'd like, and it's not that it reminds me of my mom. It's that it reminds me of this: