September 2007 Archives

I assume Emmy Rossum is so excited because her CD is coming out, and her music video is being splashed all over the Interwebs. Certainly it's not the overly boring and wrinkly shift she's wearing, which is a great color but which sucks all the youth out of her.

Aside from Dakota Fanning, Emmy is pretty much the youngest little old lady in the business. In a way, though, that's apt, since she's churning out the sort of quasi-New Age music that you'd expect to hear a bunch of crones relaxing to while they get their salt scrubs in Palm Springs. It's like Enya, with a tad of Imogen Heap thrown in to give it an illusion of hipness. Her voice is hugely overproduced, considering that she's a classically trained singer. And the video... is magic.

And because it's been a long week here at GFY HQ and possibly a rough one for some of you out there, we'd like to borrow a little something from those wry geniuses at The Daily Show and present Emmy's music video to you -- after the jump -- as this week's Fugment of Zen.

Apparently Rumer Willis has been taking her new hairdo all over town.

[Photo: Splash News]

Unfortunately for her, a) life is not one long Whitesnake video, b) we already have a Brigitte Nielsen, and c) even Sienna Miller stopped going out like this two years ago. That's three strikes, sweetpea. Time to invest in a wig and a new wardrobe.

Poor Cheetah Girl. Not only is the name of her band kind of a sad knockoff of Pussycat Dolls -- next up: the Meerkat Kids! -- but she is wandering around in public swaddled in a bedraggled half-tarp, half-tablecloth.

Maybe this outfit represents one of the many steps down from Pussycat to Cheetah. Whereas Robin Antin has bravely committed her life to ensuring that the Dolls are about understanding their inner confident sexyness and sexy confidence, the Cheetahs are merely required to find their inner wet-t-shirt-contest participant and then walk around cloaked in an aura of dampness. Seriously, that skirt looks sopping wet. For her sake, I hope she did just win a free drink coupon in Cancun before she got to this party. That's about the only thing that would make this worth it.

There is a lot wrong with this picture. But I think you'll understand if I skip over the dirty ballet flats and stained sweater in favor of saying, "OH MY GOD, RUMER, WHAT IN THE NAME OF BILLY IDOL DID YOU DO TO YOUR HAIR?"

[Photo: infdaily.com]

This reminds me of a crappy yellow wig -- basically just a slab of cheap fuzz -- that a friend of mine wore when he went as Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes for Halloween. Except he got to take his off at the end of the day, and also a few times in the middle of it, because he couldn't stand it. Much as I am having trouble looking at Rumer. It's like she got a Tyra Banks Special. You know, from Miss T's constant obsession with using makeover day to bleach into oblivion some poor America's Next Top Model wannabe's hair -- and in at least two cases, pausing first to chop off all their hair in a "style" that makes it look like the model had stuck 70 pieces of bubble gum all over her head and needed a dramatic rescue.

Is this a cry for attention? Is this what happens when her alleged BFF Hayden Pannnettttieitiererere gets too busy with work (and threatening to kill photographers and looking as carefully cosy as possible with her older co-star so that she'll have something she can coyly deny)? Did Rumer bet Ashton a bleach job that Lindsay Lohan would be out of rehab by Labor Day? Is she angling to star as Susan Powter in an off-Broadway musical called Start The Insanity? Or did she erroneously think, just because Demi was blondish in St. Elmo's Fire and The Butcher's Wife, that she could pull this off and become a sex symbol? Because, seriously, the way this turned out, she should've looked to G.I. Jane first.

It seems we may owe Bai Ling an apology. Behold: A scene from last night's Ugly Betty.

Look familiar? Except for the accessories, this is basically the exact outfit we fugged Bai Ling for a year and a half ago, a portion of which has a starring role in our site masthead.

Forgive us, Bai. Obviously, we misunderstood you lo those many moons ago. Personality #12 wasn't trying to teach us the assorted merits of cracking a ringmaster's whip while pirouetting around a dais at a circus honoring Kelly Osbourne. Rather, by wearing it without the belt, that particular Baby Bai was sending us a very important Message From The Future: One, that no matter how fabulous Betty's nephew is, his insistence that it would work without the waist strap is the baldest of balderdash because that thing wouldn't work if it was on a streetcorner full of escaped convicts and sailors; and two, no matter how much Wilhelmina Slater agrees with him, she is NOT TO BE TRUSTED because deep down (say, a centimeter) all she wants is for the world to look worse than she does. In short, Bai Ling, our most cherished psychic friend and tireless crusader for truth, wanted to tell us not to believe everything we see on TV.

HA! Just kidding about that last part. What kind of message is that? TV would never lie! Sure, in this case it's having a little fun at our expense, but otherwise our sweet friend would never lead us astray. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check and see whether my bionic legs have been secretly installed yet.

Oh, Lauren, I don't even know:

On one hand, that color is cute on you. On the other, you sort of look like you were attacked by a rare species of florescent green chickens -- very violent, very prone to molting.

Whenever I look at this picture of Taryn Manning, the first thing I think is that I could resurrect my 2004 Hilary Duff Halloween costume and we could go together as Hilary Through The Ages.

And then I realized that Taryn is already kind of two Hilary eras in one. From the waist up, she's Latter-Day Duff, with the floaty yet trendy shirt, the godawful hat, and the dark hair that occasionally looks like it's been out in the rain and hastily re-dried with one of those hand-blowers in the women's room.

And on the bottom, she's 2004-05 Duff, back when she never hemmed her pants. I mean, on the whole the outfit is kind of trendy, I guess, but SERIOUSLY, honey, tailor those jeans. Do you not understand the power of a cute shoe? Even Hilary knows that.

Not that I have nothing against Hilary Duff -- she hasn't humiliated herself in the tabloids (even that Lohan feud was mostly on Lohan's part), she hasn't dated anyone who makes us want to brush our teeth since that time we saw her at a bowling alley in Studio City making out with Aaron Carter, and I can't resist Raise Your Voice if it's on (in part because that British kid is super cute, and in part because the dubbing job on some of her singing is hilariously obvious... and then also, it's fun to wonder how drunk John Corbett and Rebecca De Mornay had to get at the end of the day to bleach out memories of their participation) -- but Taryn here is looking like a Value Village version of her, and well, we already have a Discount Duff. Her name is Haylie, and she needs the job more than Taryn does. Don't you think?

Oh, Bjork. Thank you.

[Photo: Splash News]

Just when the world feels full of nothing but trenchcoats and cute cocktail dresses, you come through with one of your usual Intergalactic Ballet Company costumes -- this one is from the award-winning production of Jiffy-Pop Presents: Wonder Woman, although it's better with the cuffs that squirt weapons-grade streams of scalding liquid butter -- and I'm gripped with the urge to embrace you.

Although I may wait for you to change. That thing looks sharp.

Psssssst. Hey, you alls. Come over here.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Shhhh. Be very quiet. I'm not supposed to be talking to anyone because "my downward spiral is too depressing." I don't know how that's possible since I don't even have a spiral perm but whatever. The people who post up these letter thingies on the internets think I don't hear them when they call me "Princess Tragedy Trainwreck" behind my back, but I have ears just like the walls do IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Anyway. I know people are all oh my god she's a terrible mother and a really bad driver and we totally miss her snake and I am here to tell you that that snake was totally a pain in the ass so you should get over that part of it right now. All the rest of it will work out just fine if all y'all would just CHILL and OPEN YOUR EYES and see that I am WEARING SHOES IN THIS HERE BATHROOM. God. And people (MOM) say I don't ever listen to anybody's advice.

LOVE,

It's MISS BRITNEY BITCH because you are nasty.

As Jessica and I were sitting around the other day writing our "Get Well, Intern George" card and watching Passions while we ate our way through three tubs of ice cream -- you know, as wicked wenches do -- I turned to her and said, "But you know what would REALLY help him learn to laugh again? The sight of his ex-girlfriend in a hideous, cheap, pantsuit/jumpsuit thing that looks like she ganked it from Katie Couric's 1994 Today show wardrobe, back when she was bubbly and cute and unassuming and not obsessed with bronzing her legs and whipping them out every time a celebrity had to sit knee-to-knee with her."

We thought we were going to have to finger-paint it for him using the sticky remnants of Tiramisu gelato. But Lisa Snowdon evidently heard our cry and decided to step up to the plate.

It's so selfless, really, this sacrifice -- just to give him the healing power of mirth, she allowed herself to leave the house in this. Bravo, Lisa. You are a true hero. When George comes back to work, you will be the FIRST person to receive an autographed hugshot.

Mika Combs here is on that Fox show Nashville, which I have not watched, and now can not, because it got yanked from the schedule after getting SPANKED in the ratings. She is certainly very cute (and in fact, posed in Maxim under the headline "She's totally guitarded!", which is an interesting play on words that I sort of appreciate for the pun but I also find it hard to believe that no one over at Maxim ever wondered, "isn't that kind of insulting to....someone?" Of course, Maxim also recently ran a cover of Lindsay Lohan [holla, girl! I'm glad you're sobering up, but I kinda miss your wacky headbands and half-gloves around here] looking totally Roofie-ed out, so....). And she's a country singer, so, you know, all about boots. Which is totally fine. I love boots. But, honey, you don't need to wear every trend on the cover of CosmoGIRL! at the same time:

I mean, at the very least, 86 the sequined vest. Unless you have to run off immediately after this event to Whiskey Pete's Casino and Hotel in Primm for your 8pm shift in the Wayne Newton Room. In which case....well, I still would have changed in the car.

Oh, Wikipedia is such a delicious font of (potentially unreliable) information. For example, when I went looking up Kimberly Stewart, I found out the most hilarious things. Like, "Had a relationship with singer Cisco Adler, who is also known for dating actress Mischa Barton. Stewart got a tattoo reading "Daddy's Little Girl Loves Cisco", which, after their breakup, she changed to "Daddy's Little Girl Loves Disco." Allegedly, when she had her breast implants removed, she sent them to Jack Osbourne, who hung them in his bathroom (silicone really DOES liven up a room). And, then, of course, there was her 11-day engagement to Talan from Laguna Beach, all memory of which I'd totally banished to that portion of my brain where I keep stuff I will never need to think about again, like geometry.  So, I don't know if maybe I'm just worn out today, or I've finally seen the light, or what, but this Wikipedia entry does make Kim sound more entertaining that I had previously thought. I mean, anyone who follows Johnny Depp's lead, and edits their misguided romantic tattoo to something else gets at least one point. Plus, she's looking kind of of cute here, at some kind of Halo event in England:

Right? Cute. Kind of Natasha Bedingfield-esque in the face, and sort of saucy and fun. It's shame that, just as I was beginning to think, "I bet that Kim Stewart is secretly entertaining," she went and did this:

I had hoped we were in an era where the obsessive need to tie-dye had passed us by, but apparently not:

Although this more closely resembles a lazy Rorscharch test than proper tie-dye, like somebody hurled their ink at her in the hope it would magically render something psychologically insightful. I'm not sure it worked as intended, though; all I see is that cherished time Alexis Morell Carrington (pre-Colby Dexter Rowan) and Krystle Carrington had a catfight in Alexis's art studio.

Granted no paint was splattered (although if it had been, Alexis and Krystle would've known better than to wear the fruits of their fury around town), but Krystle did destroy a portrait of Blake -- see, Krystle discovered that when she fell off her horse and miscarried Blake's baby, his jealous ex Alexis and her kicky red tam o'shanter had deliberately fired a gun into the air to spook the animal. Rage, ripped clothing, and a not-insubstantial amount of groping ensued.

Cone to think of it, you should really check it out. You won't regret it:

Rashida Jones is very pretty, but sometimes shows up at places looking like she was surprised in the middle of cleaning out her grandma's closet. Which is why this is so refreshing:

[Photo: Daily Celeb.com]

[INSERT HACKY JOKE ABOUT WANTING TO WORK AT HER OFFICE/LOVING THE DRESS CODE AT HER OFFICE/WONDERING HOW STRICT THEY ARE ABOUT SEXUAL HARASSMENT AT HER OFFICE HERE.]

Diane Farr is one of those people who's had an interesting career trajectory.  She's done a lot of (very funny) writing, and co-hosted Loveline on MTV (during the era, in fact, that my friend Javier appeared on the show as a man who had a serious problem: a fetish for tube socks. Need I add that said fetish was totally fictional? I believe Diane and Company told him not to be ashamed of his sockular attractions), and also has done WAY more acting than you'd think for someone I have a tendency to get confused with Kim Raver. And, according to the always completely reliable IMDb "trivia" page, "After a breakup with her fiancé, [she] and a friend, an artist named Laura Bailey, started a greeting-card company called Other Announcements." All in all, an interesting and varied CV. And now, it appears, she is entering a new phase of her career:

[Photo: Daily Celeb.com]

Lewis and Clark enthusiast/survivalist!

Why so funereally-attired, Kate Walsh?

Mourning the failure of Private Practice before it even premieres? That seems premature of you, although possibly prescient.

This morning's fug has been brought to you by the letter "P," and also by the fact that I really hated the Private Practice pilot, to the point that I plan to parlay my petulance into predictions of abject p-failure. (Sorry, Taye Diggs: objectively, I wish you, Tim Daly and Addison the best.)

[Photo: infdaily.com]

TARA: Roberto!

ROBERTO CAVALLI: Aiiiii, it's you, Blond Person! That party girl! Lindsay!

TARA: No, ha ha, no, you're... no.

ROBERTO: Your denials entice me. Are you the pregnant one?

TARA: Um, I... Nicole Richie? No. It's...

CAVALLI: ARE YOU SURE? We are touching. I must know. Fetuses are so hot right now!

TARA: Yeah, I think so. I mean, yes. I'm not Nicole Richie.

CAVALLI:  I can see it: Fetus hats, RESPLENDENT in my fall 2008 collection. Vests made of diapers. God, it's divine. WHERE is my moisturizer?

TARA: It's Tara Reid, Roberto. I was -- shit, I AM -- an actress. Are you listening? Dammit, I was sure this would work.

CAVALLI: Do not swear at me, stage jockey, or I'll be compelled to wonder if I should take my sunglasses off and shift away from your earlobe.

TARA: Listen, it doesn't matter, I just really love you and I'm happy to be here, and it's amazing that you're allowing yourself to be seen...

CAVALLI: And you're not pregnant? It's just a really bad dress?

TARA: I guess so, yeah, it's...

CAVALLI: Then it is time, Anonymous Blonde.

TARA: Time for what?

CAVALLI: SMOKE IT.

TARA: I'm not sure what you...

Hopefully, medics were on hand to ensure that this Spanish actress was not being slowly asphyxiated by a renegade twelve-pack of black buttons and its venal fabric ally:

However, the upside is that anyone seeking the perfect elaborate neck brace -- with matching jacket! -- need look no further. When whiplash becomes the height of fashion, this woman's nape stylist will make a mint. I'll take ten percent.

Last night, I was chatting with a friend about Jessica Simpson -- namely that she seems to be heading for several decades of Sunset Boulevard-esque decline (sorry, Jess. It just seems possible. Maybe you should buy a monkey and accept it). But now that I think about it, Paris Hilton seems to be embracing her inner Norma Desmond as well:

Albeit in what seems to be an incredibly cheerful way. And she, of course, has already gone to the trouble of buying a monkey -- which then, of course, attacked her and later was confiscated by the state, although it appears from this photo that they eventually returned him to her so she could make him into a collar for her coat.  PETA is totally going to set Pamela Anderson on her for this, and it's not going to be pretty.

I deeply, deeply hope that this woman is preparing to be Spain's entry in the next Eurovision Song Contest, because nowhere else would this outfit be more magical and appropriate -- and yet, at the same time, downright frumpy.

Somewhere in Vegas, a stripper is copying this look to wear to a funeral.

I've become kind of fascinated by Mary-Kate Olsen (no offense, Ashley [ed note: oops: see below]; I'm sure you're really interesting, too, but since you never got to be The Tragic Olsen, well, it's not the same). I don't get Showtime, so unfortunately I can't watch Weeds; ergo, I don't know how M-K is doing on it, making New York Minute the only time since Full House that I've seen her speak. But she went through something awfully private in a very public way when we all found out about the anorexia thing, and she seems healthier now. If she's gotten up to any other mischief, she hides it pretty well from the press. And love her clothes or hate her, at least she's consistent with her message.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

That message -- when it's not something along the lines of, "Double, double, toil and trouble" -- is clearly that all her blood circulates in her feet and nowhere else. How else to account for the fact that it's warm enough for open-toed shoes, yet freezing enough for a giant sweater and trenchcoat? You're witnessing a biological marvel, people. That she's a miracle of science should ratchet up New York Minute DVD prices by at LEAST ten cents.

** Apparently there was a snafu with the photo captioning, and this is in fact Ashley despite the photo being labeled MK. Do you know what this means? Do you? It means... that I have a reason to be fascinated by BOTH of the twins now, instead of just one. Thank you, Jesus, for loving me. THANK YOU.

It's Monday morning, which hardly anyone likes, even if they've had a terrible weekend and are coming into a job that involves foot massages and multiple flirty IMs from the cute boy three cubicles down that you sort of have a crush on. But take heart. It's entirely possible that, on a Monday a few decades from now, you could wake up and realize you've been lucky enough to age like this:

I realize this is hardly a GROUND-BREAKING OPINION PIECE, that Helen Mirren is hot/awesome, but work with me here, cranky desk monkeys. Helen Mirren in a flattering, age-appropriate yet not dowdy, comfortable-looking but still sexy gray dress -- holding her autobiography, which rightly features a giant photo of her face -- should make anyone feel at least mildly better about the state of the world, even if it's just in a "I wonder how's she's avoided being cast in Harry Potter yet -- OH! Speaking of, I totally forgot I hid some CHOCOLATE FROGS IN MY DESK! Thank GOD, all is not lost!" sort of way.

Also, we heard a rumor that she flashed her boobs at the Golden Globes after-party to illustrate that they're real/spectacular, which is way more awesome when it's coming from an Academy Award-winning sexagenarian  than it is from Britney Spears, although I still quite haven't figured out why. 

I am secretly looking forward to the Sex and the City movie, although that might be an embarrassing fact to admit -- but what do I know? I'm the girl who turned on her TiVo this Sunday expecting to find out what kind of leggings-and-Victorian-nightgown-getup Jennifer Love Hewitt modeled on the season premiere of Ghost Whisperer and uttered a squeak of annoyed disappointment when she found out it didn't start until NEXT week. I am also the girl who then wandered into the kitchen, tripped over the Scooba and decided that as she was starting the week with a stubbed toe AND a distinct lack of frilly, yet serious, bedjackets, to make her coffee a bit Irish. So I'm admitting it freely and maybe slightly drunkly: I am totally going to see this Sex and the City movie. Maybe not in the theatres, but definitely when it hits HBO. And Pat Field-fueled outfits like this are part of the reason why:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

It's like Pat Field decided to take all of the iconic SatC looks and blow them up, extra-large, and then shove them up our noses. This, obviously, is the Iconic Carrie Bradshaw Giant Flower Pin...AND IT'S ABOUT TO EAT HER HEAD. In other scenes, I hope she sports a gold necklace with a gold "Carrie" charm the size of a small European import, and that she wears her bra on the outside of every single one of her shirts, finally just forgetting the shirts altogether in favor of some Sue Ellen Mishke action. I presume there will also be a scene in which she wears hotpants to church. Likewise, I presume at some point Charlotte will take her primness to an extreme, wearing something Amish-inspired; Kim Cattrall will film the entire final third of the movie in the nude; and Miranda will be forced int0 a storyline which involves abject humiliation such as (a) digging through trash, (b) eating an entire cake while watching infomercials, alone, with dirty hair (I try to only eat HALF the cake, myself) (c) gorging on pastry with a a face mask on while riding in the back of a garbage truck. I kind of can't wait. If only there were a role in it for J Lo. Hew and her bedjackets.

Completely missing the point of the revolution it's bastardizing, Nike is oddly pleased to announce its new line of dress sneakers to be sold under the slogan, "Looks like a sneaker, feels like a pump."

And who better to debut them than a girl who looks like she spent $2 to rent a dress from a costume shop specializing in ill-fitting nightgowns. Which I guess might come in handy if you're playing Daisy Mae in the little-known Lil' Abner 2: Lil'er Abner, wherein Daisy is frightened to learn the details of coitus and flees from her marriage bed. For the red carpet, though, I might've gone with something that actually fit, and was somewhat attractive, rather than an outfit that Forever 21 would cast out of its stores for being "too poorly made."

This isn't exactly a proper fug, as I don't really have an issue with Ashlee Simpson's outfit here. Sure, it's kind of quasi-Goth, especially with her slinky slumpy posture and copious eyeliner, but I own like 32 different black shirts, so I feel her need for monochromatics.

And while she's seemed to have made a habit of brushing her hair only sporadically -- perhaps in an attempt to look as Mary-Kate-ish as possible -- at least she's kind of committed to that whole I Just Rolled Out of Bed look. The thing I'd like to draw your attention to, dear reader, is that our little Ashlee managed to pose in front of a sign for Hornitos without bursting into 5th grade giggles. I suspect Jessica may not have been able to hold out. (Jessica Simpson, that is. Not me. I did not make a "I'm feeling hornitos" joke and then delete it, no sir.)

I would love to know what stain SO ruined Cobie Smulders' little black dress that she was forced to try and salvage it by stapling a piece of satin to her chest.

Unless she's turning herself into a magician, and a rabbit is going to pop out of her stomach later in the evening. Or maybe she's taken to throwing impromptu puppet shows on a stage made from her abdomen. If either of these is the case, I sincerely hope we'll see an episode of the genius sitcom How I Met Your Mother in which Cobie gets to show off these skills -- maybe a flashback in which a down-and-out Robin Sparkles, having been booted off the Canadian pop charts for the last time, goes to the mall and busks.

Dear Lady Vic,

Please consider this a carefrontation. Maybe minus a little of the caring, because I don't really come across you enough in life to have a vested interest in you pulling it together, although I do sort of wish I'd seen your episode of ITV's Don't Call Me Stupid. The very idea of a show in which people who are perceived to have unstellar intellects are asked to learn about complicated stuff is kind of wonderful, and I hope it makes it over here, even if it's inevitable that we'd ruin it by renaming it So You Think You Can Tell Me I'm Stupid? (and of course, So You Think You Can Tell Me I'm A Stupid Celebrity?) and making Drew Carey co-host it with Giuliana De Pandi or something.

Anyway. So this is less a carefrontation than a mildinterestfrontation. But the idea is still there.

You are just a buffet of vices, madam. You've got Lucy Davis's tanorexia problem, Rachel Zoe's sternum, and Paris Hilton's penchant for putting on dresses that more accurately resemble elaborate lingerie. Come to think of it, that makes you sort of a British version of Lizzie Grubman, except for how you've never mowed down a bunch of drunk people in The Hamptons (that we know of). And trust us, you don't want a piece of that.

So please: normalize! Eat a giant baked ziti and then lie around on your couch doing some online dress shopping and occasionally rubbing on regular lotion instead of self-tanner. It's what I like to call "Saturday." Well, except during college football season, in which case it becomes, "Eat hot dogs from the Hot Diggity Dogger while screaming at the TV, then when my team inevitably loses, do some revenge shopping to pull me out of my funk, then go stare at my skin and shriek about how I'm getting old." No need for you to put yourself through the latter torture, but I prescribe a week of the former to see if it helps you look slightly less alien. Good luck!

Cheers,
Heather

This is Laura Bell Bundy, who's currently starring on Legally Blonde on Broadway -- and, according to our sources, quite good in it indeed. From the looks of things, though, she's angling to make a move over to Xanadu:

There's something about this that makes me want to strap on the old roller skates and zip around the rink, my feathered hair blowing in the glorious breeze created by my own miraculous speed, to the tune "Crush on You" by the Jets. (This is, by the way, complete fantasy, as I hated roller skating parties as a youth due to my inability to skate in any way that didn't involve careening uncontrollably from one ledge to another while screaming in fear. Clearly, in the Crush On You rolling skating fantasy, in addition to being older and more self-assured, with better hair [kind of like Jessica Wakefield], I am also more co-ordinated.)

Poor Phoebe Cates. It doesn't matter how good you look for your age if you forgot to flash-test your dress.

Although at least she's wearing a bra and panties; score one point for the wisdom of the older generation, many of whom at least know that a girl's birth canal ought not be available to the public for scenic tours.

Unfortunately, all those bonus points are immediately wiped away from Phoebe by the wild-eyed man standing next to her, whom I know on the surface to be Kevin Kline, but who more accurately represents Kline if somebody crossed him with Rip Taylor. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would do that -- isn't Kevin Kline sometimes manic enough? -- but by the look of him, it's so he can have two careers: One as a Serious Actor who is angling for a place at the Deadwood movie's banquet table of edible scenery,  and one as a roadshow entrepreneur who is angry to learn that his twelve cases of Dr. Rippenkline's Uberionic Ultracolonic Supersonic Youth Tonic only sold for a nickel to a dude who promptly emptied them out so he could get cash for recycling the bottles.

Oh, Bai Ling! It's just so nice to see you out and about again. When you're not on the scene, my mind starts to race wondering where you are and what you're up to, and I begin to worry that, say, you've been the victim of an alien abduction, or perhaps you've been forced to take a part-time job at Rite Aid, which will surely stifle your creative juices. However, I'm relieved to see that's not the case:

What with your homemade tee and all. I'm not sure what that tee is implying -- are you gestating yourself? Are you missing? Is this an homage to that line Paris Hilton did, with her own face all over them? Are you on a journey of self-discovery? Do you have this shirt in nine other versions, with other peoples' faces on them? I hope the answer to all of those questions is: YES.

Listen up, Debbie Harry. You rock. Truly, you do. We would call you any time. We could make plans to get together and talk all about your heart of glass and how high the tide is, perhaps over some beers and a game of darts.

But we would also need to discuss this:

[Photo: Splash News]

You don't need to work so hard to prove you're still bitchin', Debbie. It's innate. You once RAPPED, for God's sake. You, as Wayne would say in his world, can seriously wail. But you did not -- I pray -- just win the karaoke contest on All-You-Can-Eat Shrimp Night at the West Palm Beach Red Lobster by writhing around on the salad bar's sneeze guard to "Like a Virgin," causing handsy old Ed Bardwell to overdose on his heart medication because he thought it was Viagra. Ergo, there is absolutely no reason to deploy a lace bodystocking. That's just reckless. Please tuck that thing away and never bring it out again -- not even if, in about a month, I beg you to loan it to me because I've run out of Halloween costume ideas. I should never be that desperate, and for the love of all things rock and roll, nor should you.

Add the following to the list of questions I plan to ponder whilst lying in bed tonight: Ethan Embry -- what gives?

Subquestions include: are they making a film version of VH1's Rock of Love, and he's playing Bret Michaels, without Bret's trademark golden locks, but WITH Bret's kooky love of the bandanna/hat combo? If so, will the actress playing the contestant who got a tattoo of Bret's name (!) on her neck (!!) actually exhibit a similar Method-like devotion to the role and get her own Bret Michaels tattoo? And if THAT occurs, will Bret Michaels himself perhaps be so swayed by this that he will end up, in the end, with this actress, rather than anyone on his own show, and -- if you're all still with me -- if THAT happens, whose head with explode first? And if it's Ethan Embry's, will his gray matter remain neatly contained in the headgear pictured? And if it does, could this all mean that, actually, Ethan Embry is impressively prescient? And if he IS impressively prescient, do you think he should stop acting and open a psychic hotline called That Thing You're Going To Do!, cashing in on his role in That Thing You Do! at long last? And if That Thing You're Going to Do! takes off, and Cashmere Mafia does not, will Embry throw cute Tom Everett Scott a bone and give him a role in his psychic hotline infomercials, thus leading to an era in which insomniacs turn to their sleeping partners and say, "I can't BELIEVE Tom Everett Scott is in a PSYCHIC HOTLINE COMM -- oh, you're asleep. Sigh." And if so, will that be the kind of thing you remember to convey in the morning? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

[Photo: Splash News]

I can't decide whether Olivia Wilde is dressed thusly because she's doing a reality pilot called Walk of Shame, in which she documents or recreates people's most embarrassing morning-after treks; is busy remaking Bugsy Malone; is road-testing her Halloween costume, in which she's dressed as both Marshall AND Lily from How I Met Your Mother; or simply is employing Marshall's choice of a fedora to cover up a massive hair accident, which she sustained when some prosthetic innards got stuck to her scalp while shooting a House episode.

But I do know this: If it's Bugsy Malone, then they'd better hurry up and finish, because we hear Scott Baio is Nearing 46... And Considering Marrying The Girl He Knocked Up. That can make for a tight shooting schedule.

Oh, Justine Bateman. I loved you on Family Ties, and was therefore pleased to see you getting steady work on Men in Trees (which, on my personal Guilty Pleasure Scale, falls somewhere right between Ghost Whisperer and Brothers and Sisters). And while I am thrilled to see your career rejuvenated, I am less thrilled by this little number:

It seems to be made of the curtains which used to hang in my grandma's cabin in Big Bear (which exists only in my imagination, actually, but if my grandma HAD had a cabin in Big Bear, she would have LOVED these curtains because they would have totally matched her lampshades that looked like tiny square-dancing ensembles, which I thought were totally the coolest when I was like seven and which I kind of wish I had now), and is therefore sort of hinky for an evening at which you know you'll be photographed. On the other hand, I do see that Baja Fresh sign in the background.  And this dress is perfect for an evening of Baja Chicken Burritos and chips and salsa. So, Justine, my old televisual buddy, if you were actually just meaning to dash in for some takeout and accidentally found yourself in the glare of the photographers' flashes, then girl, I totally feel you. No one wants to be snapped on a burrito run. Not even Mallory Keaton.

Poor Karolina completely forgot about the full moon until it was already too late. Awkward.

With apologies to those of you attending this production of RYAN AND REESE: THE MUSICAL!, tonight the role of Reese Witherspoon will be played by Kristen Bell:

The management thinks you'll agree that Ms Bell is currently a remarkable facsimile of Ms Witherspoon, circa The HA! IN YOUR FACE, RYAN! Years, which we think will prove especially effective in our big Act II number, "Abbie Cornish? (What Is She, A Game Hen?)" as well as in the finale, where she and Jake Gyllenhaal (played by Peter Sarsgaard) ride off into the sunset in a flying car. We thank you for your understanding in this matter, and hope you enjoy the show!

Dear Eva Longoria,

I just don't know. There's an aspect of what you are wearing here that is fabulously Joan Collins-esque. It reminds me of nothing so much as the episode of Dynasty where, wearing a purple satin jumpsuit, Alexis tells Dex Dexter -- who's trying to sleep with her/cheat her out of some money -- that "no one takes [her] to bed and to the cleaners in one night!"  Later, of course, she married him. And then he had an affair with her daughter. But then they kind of got back together. Eventually he fell off a balcony. Alexis may also be wearing a fur hat in that scene -- which is what your ensemble is missing, Eva --  and later sings and dances at some kind of low-brow western bar, which is a moment I challenge you to watch without your jaw dropping. (YouTube's mini-synopses of Dynasty clips are hilarious when posted all in a row, by the way. The sentence fragments give a rather good feeling for what it's like to watch the show, as they are basically:  " ...affair with another man!"; "... ACCUSED OF ARSON-MURDER!";  "...was being poisoned!";  "...shows up at her office after hours and tries to kill her!"; and, "... not dead, but locked up in a Prison For The Criminally Insane!!!")

And yet another part of me feels like this belongs at a Prison For the Criminally Insane (!!!):

I truly am rather torn. I should come out against jumpsuits, and yet...shiny!

Listen, I really like Jennifer Garner. I just do. I stuck with Alias because of her; 13 Going on 30 is a total guilty-pleasure movie of mine (and I confess to thinking she's legitimately rather great in it); she seems like she'd be a super fun girlfriend for shopping and chick flicks and gossipy lunches about what Martha Stewart is truly like and whether Ted Casablanca's latest blind item could be any stupider; her daughter is the cutest, most smiley little dimpled moppet I've ever seen, and I hope she and El Affleck stay happily married until the end of time and produce several more adorable blends of their DNA; and her hair is looking completely awesome lately, which hopefully would yield some helpful tips that we could exchange while watching football with our friends.

What does this have to do with actress Jean Louisa Kelly, you ask? Well, by all accounts, she's one of Jennifer Garner's best friends. Ergo, I want to believe she's just as much fun as my Imaginary Garner is, especially since she shares one of her three names with a von Trapp child. But Jean Louisa is making that assumption kind of difficult for me right now.

Why? Because of this photo:

I can't go out for grilled-cheese with a girl whose dress is making my eyes cross and my head pound, and who seems about as happy to be outside as I am when I discover that I'm out of Ruffles. It's all so stern-looking and frumpy. This lady doesn't want to help me find a really hot pair of black heels that won't pinch my toes, nor hang out while I try on an armload of things at H&M so she can help diffuse the effect of their malicious skinny mirrors. And she especially doesn't want to hang out and read magazines while we scream at our sports teams on the television and eat pizza, as I've decided Ms. Garner totally would.

No, this lady wants to rap me on the knuckles with a ruler for talking in class, wash my mouth out with soap for saying "What the heck?" at the dinner table, and put nothing but broccoli in my lunch box until I learn to eat it and like it. Which I will NEVER DO, by the way, so don't even try it, Mistress Prim.

Until I looked her up on IMDb, I had totally forgotten that Jada Pinkett Smith was in The Matrix movies. Now, it seems like she's living in an entirely different alternate reality, wherein it's 1983 and she's heading out to party with Jem and the Holograms.

And in that alternate universe, this outfit ROCKS. In this one, though, I'm not so sure.

We hold this particular truth to be self-evident: that the Cocktail Party in the Front/Charity Ball in the Back mullet gown is rarely as flattering as either of those silhouettes would be on their own. It is likewise true that if you're going to rock the mullet -- either on your head or your body -- it is a prerequisite that you COMMIT to it, making it clear to on-lookers that you're PROUD of your multi-level wonder and that if they don't like it, that's THEIR untold tragedy.

Whereas Rachel Griffiths here just seems to be thinking, "if Jeremy Piven steps on my train ONE MORE TIME, so help me God, I'm going to slap the eyeliner right off his face. Now take my damn picture."

We here at GFY HQ would like to congratulate Project Runway's Laura Bennett on being the valedictorian of her graduating class at The Macy Gray School of Shameless Self-Promotion.

Like the skirt. Love the hair. Covet the genes that let her be that trim after popping out six children. Wouldn't refuse the earrings. And might want the whole shebang if she hadn't turned the top into a vexing, iridescent flesh-toned billboard. Google can't confirm for me whether "Dress Like You Mean It" is the slogan of her and Nick Verreos' MSN Style Studio project [edited to say: it apparently is, and these fabulous boys said Laura and Nick were each asked to wear the slogan somehow, so maybe this is her way of saying, "That is such an annoying request that I will get all up in their faces with it," which would be funny and reinforce my love of her. But let's keep going here as if I never found any of that out], or if it's just a mantra that came to her while she was meditating in her closet in a brief moment away from her rowdy boys.

It's certainly an incredibly vague piece of advice, open to many varied and terrible interpretations. If I go to the supermarket in Crocs, an evening gown, and leggings placed jauntily on my head, is it acceptable as long as I MEANT to look like Joan Rivers' court jester? If Tim Gunn decides to wear jellies and a skirt made of ties on any day other than Halloween, is it all good simply because he fully intended to spent the day as a tragic tribute to From Justin To Kelly? What if Mandy Moore -- Heaven forbid -- decided to forego panties and then slide sloppily out of a limo, all because she really MEANT to welcome the world into her labial folds? Does the fact of her intent make it okay?

I am not sure I can live in that world. Well, except maybe the one where Tim Gunn not-so-secretly digs From Justin To Kelly, because then we can get together and talk about why anyone in the world would be wooed by a series of text messages made up of very few actual words. Otherwise, though, I'm out.

Introducing Sharon Stone's new line of clothing, called SHARON STONE'S CRIMES:

[Photo: Splash News]

This, the first piece from the hotly-anticipated line, is called HOMICIDAL SHEATH. Keep an eye open for other pieces, including ARMED ROBBERY TROUSERS, ASSAULT AND BATTERY A-LINE SKIRT, and MURDEROUS CARDIGAN.

Ah, yes, I remember way back when Gabrielle Anwar played a figure skater on 90210, whom Brandon saved from herself by teaching her that the only way to enjoy life is to stub your fingers on his hair helmet while trying to run them through it, skate around in a circle while holding hands with your chosen Walsh twin (as long as it's Brandon), and eat hot dogs. Although, obviously, Brandon was right about that last thing. Hot dogs are a gift. Thank God my current career allows me to eat them.

Gabrielle's current career would seem to leave her little time for such small pleasures, however:

[Photo: Splash News]

I mean, it's awfully time-consuming to steal from the rich and give to the poor while hiding in a remote forest and dodging a crooked sheriff. Who has time for processed pork products?

It's great for her that "Robin Hood" is a perfectly gender-neutral name, though, because it could beget some great marketing opportunities. Throw in Petra Pan, Paula Bunyan, and Jackie and the Beanstalk -- better still if you can cast a drag queen in that part, or failing that, Janice Dickinson -- and you'd have a compelling Vegas revue. Imagine all the fun they could have at the expense of Little Miss Muffet's tuffet.

I feel like we've asked this question before, but I'm compelled to pose it again: SERIOUSLY, didn't she supposedly get those things fixed?

And if she did get 'em taken care of, why is she not now taking care of them? We appreciate that she is trying to be perky, but the one on the left appears so embarrassed that it's trying to take shelter in her armpit, and the one on the right just looks too depressed to do anything but sulk. It was a fixable issue, too -- a better dress, a little underwire, and we'd have been off to the races. Obviously, the cautionary leaflet her surgeon gave her -- Don't Be A Boob About Your New Boobs, sponsored by Playtex -- is lying in a crumpled heap in her car next to the Us Weekly issue in which she exalted how all that corrective surgery changed her life.

Still, I can at least take comfort in the fact that, with Tara Reid back to being kind of a mess, the world is apparently back to turning properly on its axis.

I realize that Paula's dress is like this on purpose. I do. And in theory, I don't disapprove.

But in practice, it's PAULA ABDUL. She has to know that, simply by dint of being Paula Abdul, people would take one look at this and blindly assume not that her dress was designed that way, but rather that she was too busy drinking butterfly tears from the hoof of a centaur to know that her sparkly undergarment was showing. And when you're Paula Abdul, surely at this point you are tired of people staring at you with furrowed brows, wondering things like whether you can complete a sentence, or if anyone in your inner circle thoughtfully dosed you with mind-altering drugs to erase the memory of your vanity-project reality show. SURELY, given ALL that, you would want to wear something safe, something that couldn't possibly make anyone leap to the conclusion that you are in a constant state of confusion.

Then again... well, I said it already: It's PAULA ABDUL. Nothing is certain except that she enjoys how you've grown, both with your soul and in your cup of Coca-Cola that the angels rained onto your heart. Plus, at this point, it's possible she can't wear anything without us finding a reason to scratch our chins and ponder her clarity of mind. We should probably be content with the fact that she's fully clothed and didn't have any lines during the telecast.

Because I KNOW you were wondering:

Unfortunately, the rumor that I owe an armoire bearing a strong resemblance to this dress is not at all exaggerated.

So, we've given the erstwhile Miss Veronica Mars a hard time around these parts, to the extent that I actually checked to see if she had her own category (and if this entry had gone the other direction, I suspect she would have gotten herself one). But lo and behold if she didn't show up at the Emmys wearing a dress that works on her wee proportions, in a beautiful, flattering color, which doesn't appear to have been purchased at Granny Gretel's Dress Emporium and Denturteria:

She is working it. Even Adrian Pasdar behind her appears to be thinking, "thank God that little Veronica Whoshername girl pulled out the stops tonight! I wonder if I can get her to talk some sense into Hayden. Speaking of attractive people, I'm certainly a handsome man, aren't I? I am. Debonair, even. Not many men my age can grow hair like this. I suspect I'm actually out-tressing Dempsey. He's here tonight, don't you think? I'm going to find him and pay people to debate which of us have a better head of hair. Watch out, Loverboy. Here I come."

Sara Ramirez is a dish. Every episode of this past season of Grey's Anatomy caused me pain, because Callie is a) so cute b) so saucy c) so loaded d) so trapped in a relationship that's doomed to failure because -- oh, God, I can't get started on George right now, since I just talked myself into not canceling my Grey's season pass, and I don't have time to have that conversation with myself all over again. However, there's something about this dress that just doesn't light my fire and I can't quite figure out what it is:

Empirically, it's a perfectly serviceable gown. I just feel like she's both looked better, AND less like a bridesmaid. Also, I really really really really want to go up to her and poke my finger through that hole over her hip. I bet you twenty bucks that by the end of the night, almost everyone she knows -- and several people she does not -- will have come up to her, drunk, and prodded her. She is going to have a wee, finger-shaped bruise right there. In fact, if I were her, after a drink or two (or even just if the ceremony got boring), I'm pretty sure I would start at prodding my hip myself.

At first, I couldn't decide if this look frightened or thrilled me.

Ultimately, I decided on the latter, in part because she no longer looks so frail that I'm afraid an errant elbow from somebody's PR rep will snap her in half. But mostly, I decided that I cherish the hair. That is a seriously ballsy big coif -- and not in that way where you suspect she had three people backbrushing it for an hour before using four cans of hairspray. No, it's almost a bit regal, like she's a secret Scarlett O'Hara fangirl.

So, Heidi Klum would look good in a potato sack cinched with baling wire, obviously, although that sounds both stabby and scratchy, but I feel like she kind of outdid herself here:

Do I love the hair and makeup? I don't know. Do I wish Seal had properly fastened his tie and collar? Yes. Are they still one of my favorite couples? Yes, especially since he brought his own camera, which I always find charmingly normal. Do I want to run up to her, distract her with something shiny, and somehow manage to talk her into trading her dress for what I'm wearing (jeans, a tank top and a UCLA hoodie -- extremely chic for the red carpet, no? Very Deconstructed Post-Collegiate Athletic Fan, VERY au courant, tres, tres merveilleux, darlings, perfect for fall, you MUST have it.)? Yes. Yes, I do. I want to wear it everywhere.

Hayden Panettiere looks AMAZING...from the neck up. Hard for her not to, really -- she's so pretty and young and nubile. Which is why I question her decision to raid Little Dakota Fanbelt's closet:

While I absolutely applaud her decision to go modest and demure, if I were as young and nubile as she is, and heading to the Emmys, and recently broken up with my boyfriend, I might have gone for something a bit less Napoleonic Courtier in the Third Trimester and something a little more self-contained.  Although perhaps this is all part of her plan: she wanders into the awards and takes a seat near a dreamy young producer (or assistant, or actor -- it's good to be open-minded about these things), who promptly trods/sits on her dress.

"Oh, I'm so sorry" says the dreamy young man.

"It's no problem at all!" says Hayden.

"Say, aren't you....?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I am."

"I love your work. Tell me all about Jack Coleman."

And thus begins a beautiful new relationship. Clever. Very clever indeed.

If I've learned anything about Vanessa Williams since she took her job on Ugly Betty, it's that she likes to make sure you see her on the red carpet. Well, okay, I've also learned that she's much better with bitchy humor than the abomination A Diva's Christmas Carol previously indicated -- in which, for real, she ended the movie by telling a baby, "Nobody pees on the Diva" -- and that whatever she's doing to look so fantastic at her age, it's working. I hope she e-mails me her secrets, and that they involve a strict eating plan mostly consisting of Diet Coke and cake.

She's toned it down follicularly since the Golden Globes, but her dress is no less pregnant with drama.

The little angel and devil on my shoulder -- although the devil is really just one of many, dispatched by his posse to represent them in this argument because they're on a dinner break -- are locked in an endless debate about whether this is so nutty it's amazing, or just way too much.

ANGEL: It's a gorgeous color on her!

DEVIL: Sure, but several relatives of Big Bird had to die to make that skirt possible.

ANGEL: Oh, relax. It's just bold. It's soap-opera bold. You love soap operas!

DEVIL: Only the ones in which Satan possesses psychiatrists, murderous she-male blackmailers hold a town hostage with its evil deeds, floating heads in powdered wigs make fun of the town witch, and people wear eyepatches despite not being pirates.

ANGEL: Well, this dress would look great in one of those.

DEVIL: It looks like the top part is molting. That thing is going to shed itself stupid all night long. You'll always know whether Vanessa's been in your bathroom stall.

ANGEL: Hmm. That's true. And I am kind of allergic to feathers.

DEVIL: See? You'd be in big trouble if you were sitting next to her.

ANGEL: I'm SURE she packed some Claritin in that purse... But wait, you know they're not REAL feathers.

DEVIL: So what? You're faltering. I WIN.

ANGEL: Fine. I admit it. The first time I saw it, I wondered which showgirl wedding in Vegas was missing a bridesmaid. Happy now?

DEVIL: Yes... Although, hey, at least she tried. So many other people looked boring.

ANGEL: Let's just go open a bottle of wine and watch Center Stage.

So yet again, a vicious battle within my brain ends in a stalemate and a ballet movie. However, now that I've had a soothing glass of shiraz and Jodie Sawyer has changed her entire costume and makeup without ever actually leaving the stage, I'm leaning toward siding with the devil. Vanessa's dress was a delicious idea that, sadly, turned out a little trashier than I like to see her.

My first thought when I saw Jenna Fischer at the Emmys was, "Yay, I'm so glad her broken back is better. I love her."

My second thought, unfortunately, was, "Too bad she was styled by Bed, Bath, and Beyond."

Also, I keep being distracted by Jane Krakowski in the background, where she's looking fantastic and pointing at some dude next to her. I like to think Jane is saying, "Remind me to ask Jenna how much that thing cost -- I NEED that shower curtain for my guest bathroom."

There's a fairly painful commercial running right now for Martha Stewart's new line of stuff -- obviously not effective, since I can't remember what store it's being sold at -- in which Tim Gunn is eagerly holding up bedsheets to a woman's body and crowing about what awesome fabric it is for a dress. And of course Martha has to stroll up and look at him like he's an escaped mental patient, separating him from his poor victim by dragging him off to kitchenwares and rolling her eyes that maybe he'll get ideas for hats from her pots and pans. And wacky ol' Tim trots on after her, cooing about how much he loves hats. While we all sympathize with that in this post-Dynasty era of humorless millinery, the commercial makes me yearn for the days when people didn't ask Tim Gunn to do anything beyond Project Runway, because I feel like he's too polite to say no when everyone loves him so much, and that's what leads to ads like that.

Elizabeth Perkins, though, has made me wonder if the ad is more of a documentary than I realized.

The longer I frowned at this picture, the clearer it became: This is what you'd get if someone asked Silly Ad Version Of Tim Gunn to make an Emmy dress for Ma Ingalls using only what he can find in Martha Stewart's kitchen collection. Even Elizabeth seems vaguely hacked off that she's wearing a tablecloth, as if a photographer just asked her whether the coordinating napkins are sold separately.

So, Courtney Love DOES have a habit of reinventing herself, right? Remember when she was all Old Hollywood Glamour? And then went back to the babydoll dresses and Docs and throwing shit at people during concerts? And then she sort of disappeared for a while, and then there was some weight yo-yoing (who hasn't been there, obvs), and now there's this:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Oh, Sharon Lawrence, WHAT IS UP WITH YOU LATELY?

You're so good-looking, and you seem like you might be a fun girl to get a martini with and talk about men and beauty products and what a disaster Hidden Palms was and how soon you knew it wasn't going to work. But lately, you've been dressing like you might have suffered a wee head injury.  From the thighs down, you're kind of like a messy teen pirate (and girl, I know what it's like when you can't get your boot zipped up. A tip from me to you: lie on the floor, stick your leg up over your head, and zip as hard as you can. Try NOT to do this in the shoe department at Bloomies, if you are shy).  From the thighs up, you're going to the Is It a Shirt Or A Dress? God, Sometimes Fashion Confuses Me. Why Can't Things Just Be Easy? Oh, Look, They Have An Open Bar! theme party.

Which I guess would be fun for a teen pirate, too. So carry on.

Okay, so this is a bit belated, but after it slipped past us once we couldn't allow Lil' Mama to escape again. 

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Of course, now that I've caught her, I'm not sure what to do with her. She might respond to being confined to her playpen for the afternoon, or merely forced to sit in the corner and reflect on the dangers of walking around unsupervised with something in her mouth. What if she fell? Imagine the dental bills THEN, Lil' Mama. You'd better hope your record company has a good insurance plan for you. Also, don't run with scissors, play with matches, take candy from strangers, or read Judy Blume's Forever until you're totally sure you're going to understand what a penis is and what mysterious things it likes to do.

Although I guess, in some ways, I have to give it up to her -- obviously she feels very strongly that this is an important statement to make. But I just can't figure out what that statement IS exactly. What the hell is this even saying?

Jennifer Connelly is so pretty. I think anyone who's seen her in the hilariously weird Labyrinth probably has a soft spot for her (and for David Bowie's hair); when I saw her later in Career Opportunities, I thought to myself, "Aw, that's a shame. But I guess she's had a good run." So of course, she went out and won an Oscar, and generally wanders around town looking lovely and enjoying her resurrection.

While also, apparently, preparing for her 80th birthday. Having just run around New York in heels for eight days, I respect the need to give your feet a break, but couldn't she have changed into a sexy pump in the limo and crammed these into her purse? Those are some wicked orthopedic eye sores she's got there and you'd think she would want to hide them.

And, we're done: 40 shows, eight days, several bagels, and two swollen suitcases -- each -- and we're finally heading back home. Our feet are seriously jacked up at this point; this is what two L.A. girls get when they bring their high heels to New York and try to enjoy it as a pedestrian city. There's always that one day where you think you can walk a little further before changing into walking shoes, and you are always grievously wrong. Life is hard.

We're traveling today and will be back for real tomorrow, just in time for the weekend... which, thoughtfully of Hollywood, involves watching the Emmy Awards and praying for widespread insanity to rip through town and addle the fashion judgment of TV's finest.

In the meantime, here's a brief clip show of how we closed out the week in the City That Never Sleeps:

• We're so pleased to note that Marc Anthony is everything we wanted him to be.
• Guess which singer seemed hugely cranky at Tommy Hilfiger? Well, you don't have to, actually, because we can't NOT share.
• It's not up yet as of this posting aha, but it's posted here as of this edit) but check Show & Talk for our roundup of our favorite and least favorite moments, plus a few tidbits that never made it into our dispatches.

As for Mrs. Marc Anthony, well, we wish she'd spent more of her design budget on the actual clothes instead of the kooky production values:

I have a problem. I am totally unable to tell Brooke Burns and Brooke Burke apart. I know this one dated Bruce Willis (or someone like him) for a while and was briefly engaged (or something) to him. I also know that she once broke her neck (ouch) driving into her pool (whoops) and had to wear a bedazzled neck brace around town (fancy!).  It's too bad she's not wearing it now, to distract me from this:

She looks like the owner of  one of those boutiques specializing in incense, essential oils, and charts of your chakras that you secretly kind of enjoy, except for how it aggravates your allergies and she's always trying to make you buy a crate of Ayurvedic herbal teas when you've just come in to buy one of those candles that's supposed to bring you good luck. Which is great if you do own a boutique that specializes in incense, essential oils, charts of your chakras and good luck candles, but not so great if you're trying to differentiate yourself from that chick who married (or something) David Charvet.

Okay, everyone, enlighten me: What is up with guys looking crazy lately? Is Hollywood only making movies right now that demand gross hair and strange mustaches and ridiculous hats? Is Vincent Gallo actually the poster boy for a new revolution of fugitude in our matinee idols?

Adrien Brody, what is this mullet-like creature plopped atop your head? STOP THAT. It's awful. You don't even seem to be making a movie right now, so unless you're doing reshoots for something, you can't hide behind the excuse that you're very busy playing a pizza delivery boy who wrings the grease from a slice of pepperoni to style his bangs and suddenly becomes an overnight sensation in the field of hair-care. Although I would probably watch that movie, because I am shameless, and it would probably be on ABC Family in a marathon with Mystic Pizza.

Scarier than Adrien, though, is what Robert Downey, Jr., has done to himself.

Sometimes I see Courtney Love and words just escape me. Like the time she let that random dude at the Wendy's suckle on her breast. That was pretty horrifying.  The thing is, I wasn't even sure this was her for a moment:

This is horrifying in a whole OTHER way, in a way that says, "I'm here from Planet Flargon and I feed on human flesh. Would you mind giving me your left forearm?"

ROBERTO CAVALLI: What a marvelous caftan. If I could smile, Jennifer, I would.

LA LOPEZ: Gracias, my tiny robot friend, you are too good to me.

CAVALLI: That outfit eats you in an explosion of frumpy glee. It looks like you're going to a polo party in the middle of the handbag section at Saks. I no longer need your mortal sleep, but if I did, your caftan would be a dream.

LA LOPEZ: I can't even let you SEE my hair, though, Robert. Dios mio, what a week! Between the parties and the preparation for my fashion show, I haven't even had time to wash my hair in Evian, like normal! I've been using tap water! Like a savage!

CAVALLI: ... Ooh, yes, savage! It's a SAVAGE dream! In which the Chrysler building pierces my navel while Salvador Dali watches. It's magic. Do you do parties? I must strongly consider stepping closer to you.

LA LOPEZ: Sigh. Could somebody please reboot him? Marc never needs to restart until dawn. I miss his wee undead cheekbones.

We were already sad that Fashion Week is almost over (we'll be back to posting regularly on Friday). And then the rain came, like giant dirty tears from the sky. Maybe God was crying in anticipation of J Lo's runway show, which was apocalyptic in its own way. More on that tomorrow (sadly, no one wore fur hotpants, or a cardboard box for a hat. Also, no mink eyelashes were sighted on people who were not us).

But for now:

• John Varvatos presents a show with a sobering, spectacular view and also: lots of dudes.
• LeAnn Rimes is such a pretty girl. Why does she wear so much makeup? Also, get that hair out of your face, and stand up straight, young lady.
• Donna freaking Martin makes an appearance. Now if we could only track down Brenda...
• It turns out Julianne Moore, whilst always lovely, is best as a redhead, much like Anne Shirley.

It's certainly possible that Mischa Barton was on her way to play Titania, Queen of the Faeries, in a Shakespeare in the Park production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

But we're pretty sure this is just the Marc Jacobs show, and that Mischa poked her head through some bolts of fabric and wandered over in the hope that a spring-themed pagan ritual might break out.

When Intern George isn't rubbing our feet, scrawling "Mr. George Fug Girls" on his Trapper Keeper, or peeling grapes that he then feeds us from a silver platter -- as we lounge on our chaises and swoon, "Dahling, WHITHER the fug today, I shall simply PERISH if Mischa Barton doesn't soon leave the house in a Value Village tee!" -- we sometimes let him answer our mail. And today, we decided to let him print some of his answers. We swear on all things holy (so, on George himself) that these are all VERY real e-mails we've received at GFY HQ, with names removed to protect the somewhat innocent.

E-mail #1

Subject line: (no subject)

if i can i have britneys real adress id be sooo happy

Dear Friend,

My deepest apologies for holding out on you, but it took a great many covert operations, stolen embraces, and bended-knee pleading (in a tux!) to get that overprotected information. It wasn't easy on my conscience -- I left a lot of dazed, vigorously hugged people in my wake, walking around bumping into walls with silly grins on their faces and flowers tucked into their hair. And trust me, the crazy sight of Kevin Federline plucking thorns from a rose before affixing the blossom to his do-rag is not something I'll soon forget. So forgive me, fellow believer -- ordinarily I would be a slave for you, but I can't release such sensitive information to rival fan clubs in case other people's intentions are more toxic than mine. But I'm sending her over a bundt cake and some Noxzema with one of those musical Hallmark cards (it plays the Dallas theme song, which makes my heart sing on a blue day), so I'll include a note about how much you want to hug her, baby, one more time.

Not a girl, not yet a woman,

G

E-mail #2

Subject line: jealous

ease up on my girl bai ling. she is every mans ideal woman. I AM SICK IN LOVE WITH BAI LING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. I THINK YOU ARE JEALOUS. dont worry, not all white guys drool over her-just the straight ones!

Dear Friend,

It's true that I'll never fill out hot pants and a bustier quite like Bai Ling. And what Earthly soul wouldn't sit awake in bed hugging naught but his or her knees -- gazing out the window like Little Orphan Annie on another hopeless eve under Miss Hannigan's thumb -- and wondering why blessed Bai got 19 personalities that look great in tutus and we all only get one? But I dispute that she's every man's ideal woman. I was born to cradle the world in my healing embrace. How could I fulfill that destiny that with sprightly Bai? To quote the nuns in another great movie musical, how do you catch a cloud and pin it down? How do you keep a wave upon the sand? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? My mortal arms were made for squeezes; she is the Milky Way, and I'm just a man on the ground staring up at the night sky. Perhaps we could comfort each other in our mutually futile quests?

Weeping now for what will never be,

G

E-mail #3

Subject line: (no subject)

does nicole ritie have a sister

Dear Friend,

For this one, I let my fingers do the walking and my arms do the talking! I arrived on Mrs. Ritie's doorstep yesterday afternoon, and after we revived her, it took but one dose of my warming wingspan to get the information you need: No, she hasn't been off her feet all day and yes, she would love a cup of tea and a foot rub; no, she doesn't completely feel appreciated by her children for the fact that she irons their bedsheets and pillowcases after washing them; yes, she'd love it if I'd whip up an elegant dinner she can pretend she made so that her husband stops complaining about eating so Lean Pockets for supper; yes, she does love her four sons even when they get into the cookie jar and feed stale baked goods dipped in salad dressing to the dog; yes, the dog is going to be just fine now that they've pumped its stomach; and, no, her daughter Nicole Ritie does not have a sister, because she got her tubes tied after the last time her youngest child hung from the ceiling fan while the oldest turned it up to "High."

I hope this helps. Thank you for giving me such a cherished mission, by the way; I scored a wicked recipe for lemon bars and a mocha souffle.

Baked with pride,

G

E-mail #4

Subject line: coolio

thats fo nay!!!!!

Dear Friend,

A CODE! Good fun! Let's see... it's probably an anagram, so... "Fat, stony? Ha!" No, that doesn't seem right.  How about,  "Hat fonts? Ay!" Or, "Any hot, fast?" Hmm, that might be closer, because I am a purveyor of hugs of all speeds and temperatures. Oh, I love jokes and games -- thanks for this divine japery! It's just what I needed after I failed to unite E-mailer #3 with the Ritie family child of his dreams. Go outside and look to the east. Open your arms. Do you feel that? Good! Assuming none of nature's creatures took you for their enemy during this moment of meditation, you should be able to sense my aura. Feel the breeze envelop you as I would.

I'm like the wind,

G

In a round-table discussion between Fey New York Theater Critics that we saw on a local channel, we learned that Claire Danes is reportedly playing Eliza Doolittle in a revival of Pygmalion.

What nobody mentioned is that Sienna Miller will be co-starring as her boozy, disastrous father Alfred P. Doolittle. Clearly, she's been rehearsing nonstop. Now that's a work ethic.

Sure, Uma Thurman is famously beautiful, and sure, the famously beautiful are famously able to swan into places looking a bit like they've just rolled off a plane and get away with it, but...

I mean, at least she's happy. And her neck will stay nice and warm. And she probably didn't have to shave her legs. But while Uma manages the I Just Rolled Off The Red-Eye From London and Oh My God The Movie Was Employee of the Month, I Wanted to Die look better than most, it's hard to look at this and say with a straight face that this is the best she's ever looked.

Eh, Ethan Hawke is probably still eating his heart out.

Dear Heath Ledger,

I recently heard about your break-up with Michelle Williams, and while I like you both very much individually, you often looked mildly cranky when in one another's company, so perhaps this is all for the best. And I see you've jetted off to Venice for the film festival, and presumably also to drown your sorrows in pasta and cheese. But here's the thing, sugar plum. You're on the market again. So, why this?

Sweetpea. Seriously. No. I know you're playing the Joker in the next Batman movie, but now is not the time to go Method on us.

Fashion Week continues apace, full of humidity, rain showers, hot tennis players, and yet more Vincent Gallo. We accidentally made eye contact with him the other day. It was scary...yet somehow intriguing. It felt a lot like this:

In all fairness, though, in spite of looking...you know, like he wandered away from the Manson Compound, Vincent HAS seemed rather cheery and enthusiastic every time we've seen him so far this week. Maybe he's turned over a new leaf, one that doesn't involve as many on-screen sex acts.

Voila, Ye Olde Highlight Reel:

• We are, yet again, rather mean to Jessica Simpson. But seriously. What is her deal?
• We totally eyeballed pregnant Juliana Marguiles and her sexy fiance. We saw them canoodling last year and said to each other, "each other, that dude with Juliana Marguiles is HOT. Girlfriend needs to lock that down!" And now she has. We feel so proud. Also, we have to note that we're aware that almost everything we've said in the last week has somehow featured the phrase, "total hottie," but in our defense...I don't know. Boys are cute. If two girls on the loose in the Big Apple can't appreciate, say, Nigel Barker, what has the world come to, I ask of you? What? PS: Roger Federer is hot, too.
• So are Alyson Hannigan's new bangs, thank god.
• Did someone say "Roger Federer?"  His hotness actually received APPLAUSE at Oscar de le Renta.
• Ending the hot streak? Ryan Cabrera.

We're still at Fashion Week, but nothing can keep us from eye-balling the VMAs.

And topping the short list of People You Want to Spy Out of the Corner of Your Eye Wearing a Belly Shirt at the VMAs is TOTALLY Kid Rock:

Right?

Honey, we get it: You're grown up now. No need to style yourself like an extra in the Key West Reperatory Theater and Steak Den production of Guys and Dolls. You're a man; you're in Indiana Jones. We know. Now grab a Mach-3 at your local drugstore and raze the reedy pubic 'stache before the old lady at Table Four tries to pay you a shiny quarter to mow her lawn.

Dear Diary,

What? Just because my sister Nicky had a big fashion show in New York City, and my parents were there, and her boyfriend was there, and it was really important to her, you expect me to just DROP EVERYTHING and GO? This is the VMAs, beeyotch, and I don't know if you HEARD me when I was writing sensitive things about homeless people, Diary, but I was in PRISON FOR A LONG LONG TIME. What's a cougar to do?

What, I can't be a cougar now? Who cares if I'm not old enough? Since when am I not allowed to be fashionable? Demi Moore and Kim Cattrall are, like, all up in the young ass right now and everyone LOVES IT. So I figure, if I dress like a desperate matron, I'm IN. I can look 40! For real! See? Dina Lohan WISHES she looked this old and Up For Anything! That Shia Le Boeuf seems like he's in the market for an older woman to teach him the ways of a lady. He doesn't have to know I'm not that much further along than he is.

God, you're such a spoil-sport, Diary. Did Nicky put you up to this? She's so boring. I'm totally throwing you away.

BOOO,
Paris

Seriously, J Simp is such a tragic figure right now:

What is her deal? It's beginning to feel like this creature  we've been seeing lately is not the real Jessica Simpson, but will actually soon be revealed to be the Jessica SIMson, a simulation of the real J Simp, available for purchase at the low, low price of $199.99 on QVC as they branch out into the lucrative but as yet untapped world of sex dolls.  And, look, dude, we're not saying that there aren't some evenings when you finish your steak frites and wonder what to wear to XYZ Event and think, "tonight, I fully want to resemble a Real Doll," but for real, you can't do that EVERY NIGHT or people will begin to  cast aspersions.

The humidity tried to beat us down on Friday, clenched its gnarled fists again on Saturday, and whupped us but good on Sunday. Still, it doesn't ruin our moods -- Bryant Park looks pretty, if crowded; the clothes are cute; the cold Diet Cokes go down like magic tonic; and there was a glut of celebrities taking in whatever shows they could before flying west for the VMAs. We are trying not to feel deserted.

Here are the highlights:

• Ivana Trump really should've been talking to Padma Lakshmi about Top Chef. It's what we'd have done. Well, no, we'd probably have sat there in silence thinking, "God, I really should be talking to Padma about Top Chef, but all I can do is stare at my pedicure and wonder why it's not holding up very well." But Ivana Trump doesn't have our problems.
• Somebody please give Candace Bushnell some nap time. Maybe All My Children can give her a holiday, like they did for the beguiling Leven Rambin.
• It's nice to see Nicole Richie continuing to class up her baby bump, even though we can't always see it.
• Kate Bosworth shouldn't do her hair that way. Couldn't Anna Wintour have counseled her?
• Kyra Segwick is wee.
• Janet Jackson looks fine, everyone. Let's just calm down about her ass.
• Demi Moore COULD NOT keep her hands off Ashton Kutcher. Not that w blame her. In fact, it was sort of endearing.
• Vincent Gallo is still gross; Samuel L. Jackson is still motherfuggin' awesome. And when they're in the same photo, it just makes them each look more like they belong in those categories.
• Poor Gossip Girl kid. She really needed a handler to make sure she got to the Peter Som show before it started.

We do wish we'd been able to see Molly Sims' whole outfit from the Max Azria show in the moment, rather than so far after the fact. Behold:

After two days, countless subway rides (which we actually love) and way too many toe blisters, the New York cab drivers' strike is finally finished. Allegedly. Please, God. I feel like Amber on Big Brother, sitting on my bed tugging at my necklace and weepily thanking you aloud for the special vision you gave me of us swanning around town in easily accessible taxis -- finished with a heartfelt if slightly strange, "God bless you, God."

Here's a look at our latest on Show & Talk:

• Forget the other celebs at L.A.M.B. Little Kingston Stefani Rossdale totally stole the show, along with several hairs from Diddy's coif.
• Okay, no, forget Kingston; Clive Owen is the hottest thing we've seen yet. In fact, we reached an overload on use of the word "hot" because of him.
• Teri Hatcher was the orangest thing we've seen.

Also, when we mentioned that Mischa Barton looked "dressed down" and a little slovenly at Miss Sixty, we were being charitable. Check it:

Okay, I know we said we wouldn't be posting this week, but sometimes the rules bend -- and sometimes they break like the hard-working fingers of Lady Tyra Banks' all-star weaveology squad.

So, sure, we're working hard over here, but obviously, so are they. A creation like that deserves a little unscheduled recognition. I don't even care that she's wearing granny booties I'm not entirely sure about, nor that her sleeves may have once adorned the scalp of a few rich, vain New York financiers. When you prance around town wearing a crown of hair that shiny, that randomly spiky, and that reminisce of a deluxe baked good, it tends to eclipse everything else. It has totally eclipsed my heart, that's for sure.

On our first day prowling the tents at Bryant Park, we can report with fair confidence that Ashlee Simpson's nose job is just as good as we thought; Sophia Bush is one of the celebs we most want to take out for shopping and an Ice Blended; and we couldn't be more thrilled that Jessica Paster seems to be eclipsing Rachel Zoe as Hollywood's favored stylist because she doesn't seem interested in a) undereating, b) overtanning, or c) spawning clones. She also seems less likely to want to kick us in the face, but you never know.

But by far the best celebrity sightings of the day are things that we trust most of our readers will cherish as we do. First, roaming around the Vena Cava show was the latest and yet slightly less douchey deviant boyfriend on The Hills: the one and only Justin-Bobby (so named, for the uninitiated, because....some of his friends call him Justin, and some call him Bobby, or something, like, HELLO, Audrina, this is NOT GOING TO WORK OUT, regardless of the fact that he's also the kind of dude who says stuff like, "Truth and time tell all," instead of a simple, "Nah, I don't I'm ever going to commit to you"). Naturally, J-B was wearing what appeared to be a homemade beret.

Then, back at the tents just in time for Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. show (more on that tomorrow), we actually unconsciously grabbed each other's arms in delight when we caught sight of John Basedow, Patriotic Fitness Addict. To this minute we're unsure how we recognized him without his shirt on, or without the familiar sight of the American flag billowing behind him in those old ads (the ones where he looked older somehow than he does now, MAGICALLY). But he was toting a camera crew with a RockMeTV.com sticker on it, so we can only assume he is there to spread the word via audio-visual wizardry that you are, indeed, fully encouraged to rock him. We are also pretty sure that, if death is not an option, we'd still leave him behind in favor of Body By Jake. What can we say? Look at the Basedow pictures -- they'll haunt your dreams. Like ghouls. In Justin-Bobby berets.

Check NY Mag's Show and Talk Blog for more Fashion Week yadda yadda yadda, including the shocking development that Ashlee Simpson IS capable of taking off her stupid fedora.