June 2008 Archives

I'm not quite sure what Colin Firth's wife Livia Giuggioli is wearing here:


But I imagine it's an accurate sartorial depiction of how it feels to be married to Colin Firth.

Somehow, Eva Mendes seems to fly under my celebrity radar almost all the time. And it's not just me -- I once saw a preview for We Own The Night that misspelled her name as "Mendez," so apparently nobody involved in the creation or approval of that national advertisement is terribly interested in her either. And now she's gone and made herself even less distinct:



To me, this outfit is vintage Eva... Longoria-Parker, who never met a neon-pastel shade she didn't love. Which I understand, to a point. Bright hues are great sometimes, but moderation, not mixed together like some deranged sorbet sundae -- and DEFINITELY not served with crunchy crushed ribs and boob-pancakes as toppings. 

One of the many fashion-related emails I get sent had this picture this morning under a headline that read something like, "Jumpsuits remain ubiquitous," and I had to laugh, picturing the writer looking at his swath of pictures of jumpsuited stars and thinking, "What the hell am I supposed to say about this that doesn't sound super negative, but doesn't actually endorse the jumpsuit? 'Jumpsuits continue to have two legs.' 'Jumpsuits are not dresses.'  'Jumpsuits....are.' DAMN IT. I need some coffee." It is confounding, especially because, as jumpsuits go, this is not TERRIBLE:



And yet, it is still a jumpsuit. Blair isn't aided by the fact that, in several of the pics from the Hellboy premiere, she is making a face last seen during the scenes in Cruel Intentions where she's attempting to seduce Ryan Phillippe, but is in fact about to fall down. This perhaps renders her jumpsuit more humorous than she intended.

It's hard to judge what someone wears to cope with the heat of summer.

But not that hard.


[Photo: FlynetOnline.com]

I'm not even sure where one FINDS romper-culottes, unless they popped up in the luggage of a ship that got sucked into the Bermuda Triangle twenty years ago and only just resurfaced last week. Although that could also describe 90 percent of Forever XXI's wares on any given week, so maybe if I weren't so easily frightened away by infinite racks of cotton-spandex minidresses and footless tights, I would have found this there; then, maybe, if I had ALSO recently slipped and cracked my skull on the toilet, right this very second I too could look like a Lands' End catalog model, lounging in my backyard drinking pink lemonade and brushing crumbs from my bag of Combos off my wicked-nifty seersucker onesie. Oh, how different life could be if only I'd gotten a head injury this weekend. I wonder what Rihanna's excuse is.

Jessica and I were just discussing that it's been a poll-tastic Friday so far at GFY. But I am here to break that streak, because I am sure we don't have ambiguous feelings on this:



You know that if the Tin Man had been in a disco band, his backup dancers would've worn this jumpsuit. I could throw her up on my dashboard to reflect the hot LA sunlight back off my windshield, although I am also tempted to put last night's dinner on her stomach and fold her up into a swan.

Phew! I got through that whole thing without a poll. I knew I could do it.

You guys, I have a confession to make. It IS Embarrassing Friday Facts day, after all -- there's something about the end of the week that tempts me to tell everyone that, say, I secretly kind of love Tori Spelling's reality show (this is also kind of true). It turns out that I think I kind of love Mary-Kate Olsen this week. IT'S ALL THE SMILING SHE'S DOING. Also, she came out against Spencer Pratt on Letterman last night, which probably endeared her to millions. All that, and I think this is actually kind of cute:

It's hard for me to evaluate this dress properly -- it's Friday morning and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, so every time I stare at this picture my eyes go fuzzy and the red carpet starts to blend with her waist contours, so that she just looks like a big red blotch.



Once my vision sharpens again, I start to covet her clutch. The rest of the dress has me torn -- there's something pretty and romantic and girly about it, but there's also an aura of Little Miss Muffet poking her legs through her tuffet and going on her merry way. Which is horribly impractical -- if that damn fool spider comes along again and sits down beside her, she's got nowhere to run.

As I mentioned earlier in the week, Heather and I got to go to the BET Awards on Tuesday. It was totally fun. So we wrote about it for NY Mag.com!

"Would we bump into anyone at the cash bar or pass toilet paper to Ashanti under the stall door? And most important, could we sit through an entire televised event without the comfort of our sweatpants? The answers: Yes, no, and... sort of!"

DID we sneak out and put on sweats in the middle of the show? Find out at NY Mag.com.

Mary-Kate Olsen went the Alicia Keys route last night at a screening/party for The Wackness, which I didn't even know she was in, and modeled multiple outfits. First, we got this little number:

Is there a line in the new Pussycat Dolls song "When I Grow Up" that deals with Nicole's childhood dream of celebrating Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday by making sure he can see her bra? Because if so, mission accomplished:

The majority of you forgave Rihanna for dressing like a lemon cake. But can you forgive her for this contraption?



Before we all write this off as Rihanna being deeply original and offbeat, I should point you to our girl Kelly Clarkson, who did the "Like A Dead Virgin" thing a few years ago with -- I think -- equally stupid results. Of course, Kelly stopped short of strapping her tutu to a weight belt, and did not take care to add... what is that, a dickey? With tiny sleeves? A RUBBER dickey? It's bad enough that I look at a transparent tutu pyramid and shrug, "Eh, been there, seen that," but a DICKEY? Is THIS really where we are now, America?

Also, I know it's just a reflection off her metallic collar -- and we all know how awkward it can be when our metallic collars catch the light weirdly; it's my private pain -- but whenever I look at her neck, I see half of a gleaming silver mask staring back at me. Do you think her maybe-probably-boyfriend Chris Brown was gazing up at her and silently singing, "Rubber Dickey, you're the one; you make Sexy Time lots of fun! Rubber Dickey I'm awfully fond of you"? Or was he too busy thinking, "The PHAAAAAAANTOM of the Opera is HEEEEEEERE, INSIDE MY MIND"?

You know how there are those days when you totally don't know what to wear and you wish you could just bring like four outfits to work or whatever and change it all? Alicia Keys actually did that at the BETs. First, we've got her pink cocktail dress on the red carpet:

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Sigh. It's like the paparazzi have never seen a woman doing the walk of shame from a Great Gatsby orgy before.

I wish I had a better photo of this dress on Queen Latifah. Heather and I were lucky enough to go to the BET Awards last night (more on that later, but the short version is that it was awesome), and she looked AMAZING in person. Maybe a mini-collage will help get that across:



This color is totally awesome on her and the cut is super flattering. In fairness, I must admit that I just sort of dig her in general, and she usually looks fab, but this time she turned the fab up to FAB (you know, the all important Awards Show Caps Lock Effect).

These shiny pants would be a crime against a 57-year old groin, much less one belonging to a spry under-40 like Anthony Hamilton.



Seriously, dude, if you pull those up any higher you'll be infertile.

Remember Toccara? The first plus-sized woman who actually mattered on America's Next Top Model? The one who kept chicken under the bed and then mysteriously lost her personality after a brutal photo shoot where the clothes didn't quite fit? I loved her. Especially for the chicken thing. If I wasn't so skeeved out at the idea of not refrigerating my chicken, I can't promise I wouldn't want a secret stash under the bed, especially if I were sharing a house with a bunch of hungry bitches who might sleepwalk their way into my corner of the icebox.

Anyway, I'm thrilled Toccara didn't drop off the face of the planet like so many ANTM alums; instead, she's working for BET and has done two seasons of Celebrity Fit Club -- the latter of which presumably led to her look like this:



She's teeny now. But my question is, does she look TOO skinny? And does the dress work, or is she squishing herself into it just to make a point? Trust me, I know a girl can't always control whether her chest downsizes apace with the rest of her, but I'm thinking Toccara probably could've started a few sizes larger with the dress and then had the bottom part tailored to her. Nobody would've known, and we'd all be sitting here going, "DAMN, she looks hot," as opposed to, "Damn, that makes my boobs hurt."

Aw, and yet, I don't want to take away from all the hard work she put in for that bod. One of the things I really liked about Toccara was how she embraced being "juicy," to use Miss J's favorite word for it, but if she's genuinely healthier now, then that's great. More power to her. Just don't COMPLETELY quit the chicken on us, babe, or else there won't be any of you left.

That Ashanti! She's so selfless. Look at how she sacrifices herself so that we might all learn an important fashion lesson.



When the subject stands still, everything is fine. Sure, it looks like she stapled a drape to a figure-skating costume, and either there is an optical illusion causing me to think I can see her underwear, or I actually CAN see her underwear. But aside from all the confused frowning I'm doing in the direction of her crotch, she's not in danger of directing our ship into the Bermuda Triangle.

Unfortunately, the subject had to move.

Heather and I were having this conversation the other day about the Teen Choice Awards -- as you did at your office, I'm sure -- and how surprised we were that Rihanna was shut out of the all important "Choice Red Carpet Fashion Icon: Female" category. Sure, I don't love everything she wears, but she always makes interesting choices (and her hair is cute). Like this one:



On one had, the color is great on her and it's so summery and feminine. On the other hand, I think this dress -- along with a huge yellow wide-brimmed hat with a bow -- made several appearances on bridesmaids of the 70s. So, there's that. That can't be good. Unless Chris Brown is hanging around in a blue ruffled tux, in which case...I'll allow it.

Oh, SOLANGE. Just because you're the Knowles no one remembers, it doesn't mean you have to upholster yourself like a sofa someone left out by the street:



At the very least, upholster yourself like something that's still in the house.

Okay, before I begin, I have to warn you that I have had "How Do I Live" by LeAnn Rimes stuck in my head for like three days now, and I want to kill myself (no offense, LeAnn). It's driving me crazy. It's far worse than the time in college when I had "Bust a Move" in my head for two weeks, because at least you could dance to that. Anyway, my Rimes-related derangement is probably responsible for the fact that I saw this picture and muttered, "oh, Diane Kruger." Although I am pretty sure that Diane Kruger has worn something very similar to this and is probably telling Josh Jackson how much she wants it right now (Jackson, in case you are wondering, is in the running to replace Intern George should he ever retire), this is, of course, Naomi Watts:

So between Tilda Swinton's husband, children, and younger, husband-approved lover, you'd think SOMEONE would have spoken up about her leaving the house in a sequined zip-up tailcoat and floods.



And yet, thank God nobody did. In a crazy mixed-up world where I suddenly WANT Grey's Anatomy to get rid of Katherine Heigl and recently found myself watching an episode of A Shot At Love II With Tila Tequila, it's comforting to know that some things never change; that, no matter what happens, Tilda Swinton WILL leave the house looking like she's about to emcee a charity auction of Charles Barkley's craziest suits. Her fug is an art form -- a Ph.D. dissertation just waiting to be written. I long for the day when someone screams, "Is there a doctor of 21st-Century Swintonist Fashion in the house?" and ten people raise their hands. 

Oh, dear. Someone's been dipping into the Christmas napkin rings.


[Photo: Splash News]

Not sure I'd have gone in costume as a Yuletide place-setting on a 110-degree June day, but then again, no one has ever tried to burn me alive in a farmhouse after realizing I was merely pretending to carry his surrogate baby. So maybe I just don't understand.

Hot on the heels of Christian Siriano dressing Whoopi Goldberg from the Tonys, Project Runway's Jack Mackenroth -- who might've made it to the end alongside Christian, had he not dropped out for health reasons -- designed Heather Tom's dress for the Daytime Emmys.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "Hmm. I was SURE Heather was wearing all black when she did her presenting duties alongside Jack Wagner." True story; the fact that Heather scheduled a costume change may not bode well for how she felt about what Jack did for her on the red carpet:



I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, either. The color is certainly fetching on her, but the rest of it feels totally overdone, right down to the fact that all those busy ruffles appear to be made out of a fabric that has shiny flowers on it. The bodice in particular seems a bit shaggy and shapeless, as if every time she takes a step it's going to start flapping.

I liked Jack well enough -- I was amused by his homage to Flashdance -- so I'm sort of bummed that he didn't blow me away. For her to drop it like a hot potato and go practically Goth on us halfway through the night, right down to blood-red lipstick and smoky eyes, makes me wonder if she wasn't a little bummed too. Although to be fair, Heather had also lost her category by that point to the unstoppable Emmy train that is Michael Landon's daughter, and she looked pretty pissed about it; maybe the darker look was a pre-planned "No, it's NOT fun just being nominated, THANK YOU VERY MUCH" outfit of bitter disappointment.

Well, that's it. Goodbye! It's been fun, guys, but I'm moving to Spain.



Spain is apparently a magical land where, through some nifty transitive property of fashion, your neck brace is your tutu is your cocktail dress; where singers like this woman, famous largely for parody videos, give themselves names like "The Earthquake of Alcorcon"; and where they evidently think Bjork is a quaint little farm girl who could really stand to cut loose. There, clearly, I can finally live as I've always wanted to: as a pole-dancing blue gumdrop. I'm really happy for myself, and I hope you can share in my joy. Adios!

When I first saw this picture, I said, "ooh, Jack Wagner!" Then I took a closer look and said, "OH. JACK WAGNER."

Over the past several years, I have had many different feelings about Tyra Banks, ranging from, "This show is brilliant," to, "Oh my god, is Tyra singing?" to, "Her wig is spectacular today." And yet until now I never looked at her and thought, "Is Ty-Ty Baby matching her hair to her dress?"

Back when she won ANTM, she was Eva Pigford, and she was sporting a hideous blonde haircut courtesy of Tyra's minions. But now, she's Eva Marcille, recent signee to a contract role on The Young and the Restless -- which is incredibly boring these days despite the fact that I just realized this is the third post today on its cast members' outfits -- and guest at the Daytime Emmys. I'm rather relieved to say that Eva The Diva classed it up nicely for the occasion.



I can say from experience that Eva Pigford is not a tall person, and presumably Eva Marcille has not gotten shin extensions; ergo she's done a great job picking a dress that is not only pretty but which lengthens her. And thank GOD, she's kept the hair darker, which suits her better. The accessories are perfectly subtle. In all, this is rather a success -- made sweeter, I'm sure, by the fact the rival she bested in that season's finale, Yaya, seemingly did not attend the Emmys despite having been a contract regular on All My Children for weeks longer. Here's hoping that their two daytime gigs intersect in a deliciously bitchy continuation of their ANTM feud, leading to a Tyra Banks Show episode in which Miss T has to moderate their sniping and ends up flipping her weave on both their sorry asses. In fact, maybe that has been the plan all along. Tyra, you madcap genius you.

Megan Ward, who plays a fashion-magazine guru (and mob girlfriend) on General Hospital, has sported a series of cute bobs that help her exude an effortless cool most of the time even when she is really stupidly costumed (which is rather often, given that sometimes she looks more Sophia Petrillo than Anna Wintour). So I was very disappointed that she went a bit off the rails this year at the Emmys:



It's an Everything But The Kitchen Sink outfit: There's the giant yellow necklace, the gray-blue dress, the furry black bag, the gold cankle-inducing pumps, trendy brown belt that sticks out like a sore thumb because it's fighting with the dress, and the scary hair with her bangs sticking up like she's starring in the straight-to-video sequel There's Something About Megan. In a way it reminds me of those crazy old '70s salads -- you know, the ones that are a deranged-sounding mixture of stuff like, say, mini-marshmallows, celery, almonds, pineapple, carrots, and Jell-O, and served in a bundt mold with a star on the top. I'm sure she'd rather have been Too Trendy For Words, as opposed to a walking ambrosia salad, but hey -- I guess there's a reason you can still find it in your supermarket's deli section. SOMEONE must want a quart.

In her 35 years on The Young and the Restless, 80-year old Jeanne Cooper and her character have: had a real, on-air facelift; discovered that the younger blood rival (Jill) who bore her husband's child was actually her daughter; had a stroke and became catatonic when she learned that, which meant she was too incapacitated to prevent her granddaughter from unknowingly marrying her cousin; patched things up with Jill; and finally, suddenly unlocked the memory that an alcoholic and jealous haze years ago caused her to switch the Jill's aforementioned newborn -- by now, grown-up and long dead -- with another baby, who was still alive, living in Genoa City, and a deadly hot Australian dude. She also won her first-ever Emmy on Friday.



Given all that.... what the hell. She can wear whatever she wants, even if she does look one card short of a full tarot deck.

When I saw that Raya Meddine from The Young and the Restless attended the Daytime Emmys, I wondered why I hadn't seen what she was wearing during the red-carpet telecast.

Now I know why: She's only SORT OF wearing anything.



It has been suggested by many a soap-opera fan forum that Raya -- while clearly blessed with some striking DNA -- is, shall we say, dragalicious and/or manly. In that sense I suppose this outfit was well-chosen, because there is no room for any secret business up in her boardroom, if you know what I mean. She is clearly not carrying a surprise package. Not bringing a wang casserole to your pot-luck.

But even so, it's kind of shocking to me -- reminiscent of the year Teri Hatcher showed up at the Grammys dressed like a Goth hooker,  but more tragic and desperate. And you haven't even SEEN the back yet. Want to? Of course you do.

[Photo: Splash News]

It's been a strenuous week-plus of trying to care enough about Katy Perry to cover all her crazy outfits. But, bless her, she's doing what she can to keep things interesting. Half the time I think she's a Zooey Deschanel clone and the rest of the time I'm wondering if she's descended from Judy Tenuta.



In this particular instance, though, I think Katy is merely about to go onstage at a South Beach dinner theater production of Fiddler on the Roof, styled by Bob Mackie and directed by Dolly Parton.

Unless you just found our site yesterday, it will come as no surprise that we here at GFY HQ are huge fans of Gossip Girl, thanks in huge part to the machinations of Blair Waldorf and the hotly smarmy, faintly slimy, yet oddly charming Chuck Bass and his dizzying array of turtlenecks. We're not kidding -- apparently in his personal climate, all heat is directed so firmly down south that he's constantly forced to protect his neck from frostbite.

Well, except for the summer episodes. Behold young Mr. Bass as spied on the Gossip Girl set recently. Hang onto your trousers and lock grandma in the tool shed, because this is going to blow your loins:


[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Boating shoes that look startlingly like multi-colored Docksiders! Shorts that are practically hot pants! A shirt to wear on his yacht that actually HAS yachts on it! Is it 1981 in The Hamptons? Did Blair steal Chuck's real clothes, dump champagne on them, and light them on fire, thus forcing him to steal something from the cabana of his 80-year old neighbor? Is Chuck starring in a retro porno that takes place at a country club and makes ill-use of pool noodles and grilled-cheese sandwiches?

And most vitally: Could somebody please CGI the cast of 90210 circa the Beverly Hills Beach Club seasons into these episodes, so that we can have a face-off? I need to see these shorts face off against the summer of Brandon Dates A Bigot. Chuck's entry is strong, no doubt, but it may be no match for the cuffed, high-waisted wardrobes sported by Andrea Zuckerman and the aforementioned bigot, who had the double misfortune of being a prejudiced asshat who also dressed badly.

So, you know that I wasn't thrilled about the crazy-ass thing our old friend Sienna Miller wore to the premiere of The Edge of Love. What I didn't mention at the time was that Ms. Keira Knightley apparently also took a dip in Lake Lackluster herself:


She looks sharp-ish here, but I submit that this is because she's standing next to a woman wearing love beads and a ridiculous hat, and because Keira Knightley is supremely lithe and can therefore suffer the slings and arrows of a white jumpsuit without looking like a marshmallow. They both look sad, maybe because they both realized that one day a fashion magazine will show them this picture and ask them what they were thinking and they're both going to be like, "....Umm."

But cheer up, girls! Happy times are just around the corner! Look and see:

There is something mildly hilarious to me about Paris Hilton's latest ploy for attention, by which I mean the way she's clearly trying to seduce us all into believe that she is with child:


[Photo: INFDaily.com]

FERGIE: Hey there, mama.

EVA MENDES: Hey, Mary-Kate!

FERGIE: What? I'm not Mary-Kate.

EVA: Oh, GOD, sorry, Ashley. I'm so sorry. I forgot to check your eyebrows before I made my guess.

FERGIE: I'm not an Olsen. I'm Fergie. The singer? Hot fiance? Peed myself?

EVA: Right. RIGHT. I don't know what I was thinking. You just look... Olsen-esque in that outfit, with that hair. But I should have known -- you're too orange to be an Olsen.

FERGIE: What's with you today?

EVA: You're also too orange to be yourself, though, actually.

FERGIE: Yeah? Well. Humph.

EVA: Your lovely lady humph. HA! I'm hilarious!

FERGIE. Sure you are. Speaking of which, did YOU always have such shelf-boobs?

EVA: Was that necessary?

FERGIE: Seriously, those things stick out way further than I remember, assuming of course that we've ever met before.

EVA: At this rate we probably shouldn't ever meet again. I don't think this went well.

FERGIE: No. You're not coming to the wedding.

I wonder when The Rachel Zoe Project, that Bravo reality show about everyone's favorite celebrity stylist, will actually premiere -- if ever. I feel like that might be one of those shows that sort of languishes in post-production for three years and then Bravo airs it at 3am on Christmas day. I also imagine that if RZ here is allowed to give notes (which I'm sure she is), they might be currently causing the folks working on the show to tear out their collective hair. I once worked on a project about a certain celebrity, and she would always be calling and telling us to take out shots of her armpits. And yet she wore tank tops almost constantly. So I imagine that Rachel's Crazy-Making Note would be, "can you cut out that part where I'm dressed like the winner of the Ugly Couch Contest?"

I'm assuming Rihanna's boots are from this same Balenciaga family of footwear.



It answers so many questions: Yes, even without the psychedelic baseball dress, they still look like they belong in a movie about gladiators on acid; and no, not even Rihanna can salvage them. Also, I hope she is wearing modesty hot pants -- a concept I never thought could exist until Young Hollywood embraced labia-skimming outfits.

So, it turns out Charlize Theron is in Hancock. Are you surprised? I am. From the previews it seems like the movie is just Will Smith flying around and being cranky and doing the smashy-smashy for two hours, with occasional asides from Jason Bateman. (To be honest, though, that's probably enough for me to go see it, because Will Smith's action movies are a guilty pleasure of mine and the brilliant Jason Bateman is a non-guilty pleasure, so that right there is a savvily mixed cocktail of awesome.)

But yes, apparently Charlize -- an Oscar winner, but hey, who cares about stuff like that when Will Smith is wearing tank tops? -- tags along for some of the ride, kind of like making sure there's beer at the party for dudes who don't drink the hard stuff. However, the jury is having a tough time rendering a solid verdict on Ms. Theron's various outfits. That's where you come in, sweet readers.

Let's start with London:

According to our image provider, this girl's name is Eliza Dolittle -- as in, one "o" short of everyone's favorite flower girl. And of course when I try to Google that to find out what the heck her deal is, I get 100 returns that have to do with Pygmalion or My Fair Lady and "The Language of Eliza Doolittle" and whether Keira Knightley is going to play the role in a remake (please, God, no)(although she might be kind of good, actually, I guess) (but for some reason that prospect of an Eliza Doolittle who talks through her teeth at 100 miles per hour is giving me hives).

Ergo, it's hard to figure out who this person is, other than a Scrolldown Fug the likes of which would make Cybill Shepherd proud.



While they're brilliantly handy for arch support, spontaneous dance-offs, and running away from bears, wearing sneakers on the red carpet just makes you look like a lost cheerleader -- or in this case, a LAZY lost cheerleader who can't even be bothered to cut off the tags.

To put it in terms that Eliza Doolittle would understand:

All I want is a starlet somewhere
Who cares enough to brush her hair
And ditches the Nike Air.
Oh wouldn't it be loverly?

The right cute pump could've saved this dress.
(Though it's still got problems, confess.)
If only she'd fixed that mess.
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

Sigh. I need to stop before I fully script my parody-song sequel, "On The Street Where Louboutins Live." Instead, I will share with you a Random Fug that likewise would be sure to give Henry Higgins a coronary:

It's All Caftans, All the Time here at GFY, apparently:


Though technically, I guess this is more of a robe, and call me crazy, but I kind of like it, though it seems like it's at least a size too big for her.  The entire purpose of your robe/caftan, after all, is to prevent your boob -- or other items -- from popping out, am I right?

You know, back when Factory Girl came out, Sienna Miller did a bit of complaining that she was only recognized for her clothing and her relationship dramas, and never for her acting. Sienna, maybe part of the problem is that you tend to make public appearances looking like this:



You are wearing a bowler hat and a dress that appears to have been run through a paper shredder, layered over a bodysuit. You look like you're appearing in an obscure Bob Fosse piece, costumed by Chloe Sevigny and performed by a very self-impressed high school for the arts. If that isn't dressing purposefully to get maximum attention, I don't know what is. And while there's nothing wrong with wanting a little attention, once you get it, it's considered unseemly to complain about it.

Rarely do I expect to see a fringed caftan out in the wild; NEVER did I think I'd see it on Nicole Richie, who needs to hide herself in an enormous fabric tent about as much as I need to smear Crisco on my face and take up smoking.



It's pretty well-documented in the tabloids that Nicole lost the baby weight in about an hour, so either she's getting a little crazy about not being EXACTLY toothpick-sized -- which would be tragic, so please, Joel, sit her down and give her some cheeseburger pills and remind her how unhealthy that was -- or she's gotten a role in the Transformers sequel in which she plays a girl who can skirt danger by turning into a Miami Beach condo couch. I hope it's the latter. After the first one (I'm told) showcased Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox hooking up on the hood of his car -- which was essentially alive, and also his best friend -- I can't WAIT to see the scene in which they realize they are having sex on Nicole Richie.

I'm not entirely familiar with British actress Camille Coduri, other than knowing that she was on Dr Who and also appeared on a BBC adaptation of Tom Jones that I totally saw because I watch anything that involves British accents and petticoats.


I am, however, very familiar with her polka-dotted, lace-trimmed bicycle shorts, as I believe they made several appearances on Jennie Garth during the early years of 90210: Original Flavor. Those bike shorts have seen heartbreak, drug addition, crappy parenting, eating disorders, abusive boyfriends, Luke Perry's pompadour, and multiple Brenda Walsh hissyfits, most of which were totally deserved, like, hello, just because she was in France doesn't mean her boyfriend is up for grabs. God. Anyway, the point is that they've been through a LOT. And now, the red carpet. Truly, those bike shorts are heroic. They're survivors. They can not be thrown out or given away to the needy. (The needy don't want them.) They can not be ignored. They will -- and have! -- endured. I propose the Lifetime Movie Network consider acquiring the television movie I just wrote about them, Can't Stop The Biking: Not Without Your Kneecaps: The Kelly Taylor's Lace-Trimmed Bike Shorts Story: Featuring Those Old Bike Shorts Kelly Taylor Used To Wear Under Her Babydoll Dresses and Also, That One Awful Time, With a Cropped Top. I'm sure Tori Spelling is available.

So, I knew it was apt when we stuck Phoebe Price in Fug Madness' Charo bracket, but every so often she reminds me just HOW apt.



I mean, seriously, she is shaking that apt for all it's worth. I don't think that's what Charo meant by "cuchi-cuchi," sweetpea.

Singer/actress Brie Larson here is a cute girl and god knows I'm fond of anyone who's named after cheese. But she must have been playing hooky the day we learned that there are shorts, there are short-shorts, and then there are Oh-My-God-Those-Are-Too-Short Shorts:



Turn around, my dear:

"... So I said to the customs guy, 'Salmonella my ASS,' and yada yada yada, it will be three more weeks before I can sit in my director's chair again."

First, the good news: Elisabeth Moss got to break out of Frumpy Peggy mode for the Mad Men premiere.



Every time I see Elisabeth out in the world, I realize that I have completely forgotten what her normal shape is after seeing her as Peggy, so it's nice to see her out rocking her calf muscles and her little waist, and her pretty face without those bangs curled into a hair-claw. She looks confident, and even a bit -- dare I say it -- sassy.

However, the dress, while perfectly fine on her, probably would have escaped my notice altogether if not for one thing: On the same night she also attended the Peabody Awards presentation ceremony with some of her castmates, and while January Jones and Christina Hendricks wore the exact same thing to both parties, Elisabeth swapped outfits.

And although I don't know the order in which she wore them, I have to assume the green came second. Because that is the only order in which this costume change makes sense.

Okay, first off, please stop staring at me like that, Idina.



I'm not saying there's anything wrong with YOU. I'm not even saying there's really anything wrong with your dress. But I am mildly concerned that one of your houseplants has turned on you, and/or attempted to possess you, in order to carry out its evil scheme for total world domination. Tell me, have you found yourself leaning toward the light? Do you wake up in the morning and realize you spent the night snoozing peacefully in a bed of soil? Are you experiencing any cravings for carbon dioxide? Did you turn to hubby Taye Diggs at any point and ask him to pick up your vase from the dry cleaner? And have you referred to yourself at any point as Audrey?

If the answer is "yes" to any of the above, please go straight to the doctor; do not pass Home Depot, do not purchase any fertilizer for lunch. Above all, though, please stop staring at me like you want to squeeze the life out of my weak human form with your superior vine-like tentacles, because it's really freaking me out -- I swear to GOD I did not kill my bamboo plant on purpose.

Oh my God, you guys. January Jones is wearing exactly what I used to imagine wearing when I was a child and I had elaborate fantasies of being a cocktail waitress!

The good news about Tara Reid is that you can always count on her to elicit the response, "OH TARA REID." For example:



OH TARA REID. At first glance, I thought that aqua number on her head was some kind of misguided formal cap, but I believe it is actually a poorly-positioned headscarf. She looks like a cocktail waitress at Scurvy's Pirate-Themed Bar and Grille who's been excessively dipping into Monday's special (Peg-Leg Punch, composed of rum, Baileys, Yoo-Hoo, and small pieces of plywood).

I'm starting to think Katy Perry gets dressed with a blindfold on, then rips it off on the red carpet so that every outfit turns into its own little surprise party.

With mixed results:

I feel you, Katy -- that's the same expression that's been on my face for the past 15 minutes. Hopefully somebody popped out of the paparazzi line singing "For She's A Jolly Good Fellow" and bearing a huge carrot cake, because she'll need a happy memory once she figures out her unflattering Betty Boop costume makes her crotch look like it's plotting something.

Um, Miss Minnelli?  I hate to disturb you. You're pretty awesome, and I'm happy you're still up and kicking around. In fact, I wish you'd write your autobiography, because I know it would be a juicy read, especially accompanied by a cold martini. But, uh, I think you forgot something?

Shh, let's act like you did it on purpose and maybe no one will notice.

Laura Linney is fabulous, of this we are all aware. A fine actress, indeed. The sort of woman with whom you could easily spend a companionable hour trapped in an elevator, yes. Someone who almost always looks cleanly chic but seems like she could tell a good dirty joke, of course. But while I am enamored of her in general, I don't know how I feel about this little number:

The dress itself isn't ghastly, but the color does her no favors. In fact, I have the feeling that her makeup artist took a look at her in this and muttered to himself, "I'm gonna need a bigger bronzer brush." Then he gave up right around her chin. But why, Laura? Why? Why, when you could have just worn...something that wasn't exactly the color of your flesh? WHY?

Come on, people. What's it going to take?



Is Miley Cyrus going to have to release a single called "That Extra Inch (Take It Up, Dude)"? Am I going to have to produce a reality show called Celebrity Pants Master, which focuses on the story of a tailor to the stars whose mom-and-pop show promptly goes out of business due to zero clientele, and leaves him homeless and penniless and living under the freeway? Does Intern George need to speak to Congress? What? WHAT? Can't people see how weird it looks? WHEN CAN WE SOLVE THIS TROUSER CRISIS?

Ever since it was announced that Project Runway's Christian Siriano would dress Whoopi for her gig hosting the Tony Awards, I've been dying to see what he would do for her. I mean, this is a guy whose dream job was to dress Posh, whom you could swaddle in fifteen pounds of ruffle -- preferably covering as little of her as possible -- and she'd still look like she weighed 90 pounds soaking wet. Whoopi Goldberg is hardly an avant-garde demi-nudist; hence my extreme curiosity.

All things considered -- assuming this is, in fact, his dress; it's the most likely candidate I've found so far, anyway -- it certainly could've gone worse:



I did expect a bit better: It is not tremendously original, nor does it set my world on fire. I like my mullets on Survivor contestants and hockey players, thank you very much. I don't totally understand that flap of beige around her crotch, nor why she needs something around her neck that can summon her butler (unless he's supposed to be wrangling that beige crotch flap, in which case, she should be pulling on that chain for dear life). And it has the faint aura of an overly formal lounging robe, the likes of which you might see on a reclusive millionairess who smokes cigarettes through filgers, wears bedazzled turbans, and still uses lead-based makeup while she whimpers about how The Talkies are ruining the film industry.

But all that said, I don't HATE it, either, and here's why: When was the last time the Whoopster showed up to The View wearing hot shoes AND showing off her ankles, much less flashing skin all the way up to her knees? So even though this starts out a bit bulky and depressing -- like she's a schoolmarm at a funeral -- its gets points for turning into something saucier and girlier than I thought she'd wear, and which she pulls off with aplomb. Am I crazy, or does she deserve a pat on the back and a pint of ice cream for that?

Regardless of where you stand on this one, it's WAY better than what she had on later:

It's gotta be tough being in the Royal Guard. Aside from all that incessant, you know, guarding of things, you're required to wear really heavy hats, and you have all those tourists sneaking up to you for pictures, trying to make you break face and crack a smile even though you're supposed to stare straight ahead and ignore them. There have got to be times when a guard just wants to snap and scream, "BOO! OH MY GOD, THE QUEEN!" at some overeager 12-year old from Montana who is tugging on his pants, which is one excellent reason (among many) that I am not a member of their ranks.

But I think they're great, and as such, it's nice that all that commitment to keeping a stiff upper lip apparently being rewarded with a little visual stimulation for the off-hours.



So, congratulations to Vanessa, the first-ever Playboy Busby and Miss November in the upcoming pictorial calender The Changing of the Hard, in which you will learn what she did with the chin strap.

So, I have a strange fondness for Joanna Garcia here, probably because I used to find myself accidentally sucked into Reba, like, more than I ought to have been. I would feel worse about that, except for the fact that nearly everyone I know has admitted being accidentally sucked into watching Reba on occasion, and, besides, everyone knows that Reba McEntire is one of those celebrities who doesn't seem particularly hip but is in fact technically kind of awesome. I mean, I know we've talked about this video here before. And I may have mentioned that I had a rather amusing semi-in-person encounter with her once. Namely, I had been drinking. As had my friends. And for some reason we decided we needed to go to Kinkos. To copy something. So we drunkenly traipsed over to the Kinkos, which is on a very well-trafficked corner. And it was closed. And while my friends were peering inside to make sure it was really, really, really, really closed, I was sort of standing on the corner staring blankly into the street and a very fancy Porsche drives up and stops right in front of me at the stoplight. And Reba McEntire is sitting in the passenger seat and she looks over and sees me drunkenly staring at her and I actually say aloud, "Hey! It's Reba McEntire!" and she totally reads my lips and her reaction is to smile gaily and wave super-enthusiastically at me and then the light changed and she sped off. So she is awesome. Plus, she loves Kelly Clarkson and so do I. And...right, I'm not on Rebamaniacs.com right now, am I? Sorry about that, it's been a long week.

So, Joanna Garcia:

Lordy, I think everyone in the TRL green room yesterday had been passing the flux capacitor on the left-hand side:



No wonder Ashanti looks cranky. Not only does it seem like she can't breathe in those, but the entire outfit is horribly unflattering, and I expect her crotch is five minutes away from filing a malpractice suit. Retro flair is fun, and all, but it's just not worth it if you leave us all wishing we could go back in time to before we knew this photo existed.

"Wait, what? Where am I? How did I get on TRL? Hang on, so, okay, I was eating dinner at my house, and then I got that e-mail from Zooey Deschanel asking me to dye my hair green or else she will sue me for custody of her DNA, and ... I guess the last thing I remember is doing three shots of absinthe before climbing into bed with a copy of the Sears-Roebuck swimwear catalogue from 1952. I guess that was a bad idea...? Oh, God, why are people staring at my ass? What did I do? I'd better turn around..."

We enjoy The Hills as much as the next girls, but we still got way crotchety about all these stupid kids and their damn reality shows for NY Mag.com this week:

"[Whitney] Port, on the other hand, existed mostly as the girl who chewed on her pen before asking Lauren what happened last night, yet suddenly we're being asked to care that she's going bi -- bi-coastal, that is -- for People's Revolution and bonding with a manufactured posse of gal pals who are no doubt just as mentally aimless as their fearless leader."

Also, get off our lawn! Read more at NY Mag.com

O. M. G, Mischa.


[Photo: Splash News]

This reminds me of something. What is it? What is it? Something...from my childhood. Something I might have memorized. Something oft-parodied by Bugs Bunny....something like:

By the shores of the Upper East Side

By the shining Empire State Building

Stood the fringe-y moonbooted Mischa

Exiled from The OC, tragic Mischa,

Dark behind her rose her stylist,

Rose her stylist with bad intentions

Rose her stylish with this suggestion,

"Why don't we go for something...Pocahontas?

"Don't you trust me? I'm a professional"*

With apologies to Longfellow. But seriously. In my experience, if any part of your look is currently also appearing on any of Disneyland's Frontierland employees, you might should rethink it.

Don't ask me why the cast of October Road is being invited anywhere. That show was excruciating, and I say that as someone with a high tolerance for crappy quasi-soaps. That being said, I have some notes:

Laura Prepon: Cute dress, cheap-looking belt, possibly cute boots. Put together, you look like a hooker, kid. Get the hell outta here!

Geoff WhatshisNuts: You're a dream boat, buddy. Shave your neck and give me a call.

Part of me totally digs the blue-and-silver motif of this dress.

The rest of me wants to applaud the Lady Jedi fashion committee for going all-out with their formal robes this year. The back-flap is an incredibly practical built-in hood in case there's a sudden deluge, or, say, someone sets off the fire-alarm sprinklers in the middle of your gala function. But otherwise it's just an excuse for some asshat to see how long it takes for you to notice he's been dumping pate and brie in your shoulder-pouch.

Also, although I love the blue croc shoes, the similar-but-different color fights with the dress -- kind of like when you want to wear a black shirt and black pants, but one of them has been through the wash seventeen more times than the other, so suddenly you're in two-tone hell and look like an incredibly depressed and dour rainbow.

So, apparently, I think those little flourishes shove it into Fug territory, but dammit, I started this thing with democratic intentions and I'm going to finish it that way.

It's an oft-told tale in GFY HQ lore -- mostly to Intern George, when he puts on his jammies and furry slippers and begs us for a story with his bedtime gimlet -- that the site sprang up from a very punchy (and let's face it, probably not funny to anyone but us) conversation about the terrible posters for the movie Sleepover. It begat our whole head-scratching confusion about What Is WITH These Kids Today?, and at times like this, I remember that conversation fondly, because it seems that the "Kids Today" of right now come with a lot more "WTF?!?!?" than the ones from four years ago.

Take, for example, this star of Camp Rock. When I first saw her I thought, "Aw, she's gotta be, what, 13? I can't fug her if she's 13." But then I learned that she is merely in a movie AIMED at people who are 13, and that she herself is almost 18. So I feel an almost sisterly duty to point out that this outfit is, in highly technical critical terms, totally wack-ass:



Seriously, when I was her age -- or indeed, if I owned that outfit now -- I would have loved it if someone grabbed me by the denim suspender and said, "Seriously, you are not a farmer. And you're not at a square dance. You are also not tall enough for those pants." It's like a three-strikes rule; that ensemble is out. Preferably in a shed somewhere, in a box marked "Halloween Costumes: Fergie, 2007," so that no little 13-year olds out there decide they want one for Christmas from Limited Too.

But if you think that's as wack as it gets, just wait, because at the film's premiere she crashed the Wackmobile straight into Lake Crackpot:

Maybe I fugged too soon on M.I.A. -- turns out she changed clothes at this event so she could then perform, and here's what she brought us.



It's like she's the poster child for A Very Kidz Bop Easter, in which she plays the basket.

In general, I don't have much of a beef with the high-waisted skirt. They're romantic in that 1940s I'm Meeting My Soldier Boyfriend Under the Clock At Grand Central For One Last Kiss kind of way, and who doesn't love that? As a bonus, they give you that Long Legged thing that high-waisted pants do, without the accompanying Potentially Weird Crotch Issues. However, there's high-waisted skirt, and then there's this:

AKA, Regular Skirt You Just Hoisted Up Nearly to Your Pits.

Recipe for a Fug:



--  Three ounces of Julia Roberts' costume from Pretty Woman
-- One cup 80s-teen beach fashion (if you can't find "t-shirts knotted at the waist," you may substitute half a cup of "t-shirt hem pulled up over and back through the bra" or "t-shirt tucked underneath bra")
-- A sprinkling of Patricia Field, to taste
-- Twelve jiggers of rum (divided)

Mix all ingredients until merely adequately blended. Down as many of the 12 jiggers of rum as you need in order to blur your vision. Then don and dash.

Serves: No one.

Does Whitney Port hate her ankles?



I know clunkier, chunkier shoes are in right now, but it feels like every time I've seen Whitney in pictures lately, she's wearing something that completely swallows up her feet. It might not bother me, either, if 90 percent of them weren't awful. Like, those things are terrible. They're very, "Look, Robin, I don't CARE if you think it's going to look stupid -- it's a hot day in Sherwood Forest, and I've got wicked blisters from all the stealing-from-the-rich I did for you yesterday, and may I REMIND you that I didn't even take a lunch break? So I'm just gonna cut the toes out of my boots today, and if you have a problem with it, then you can take one of these babies in the MOUTH."

Actually, I know this said "Scrolldown Fug" -- but let's inch back up a little just long enough to wonder if that was meant to be worn as a dress, because holy bejeesus, if she actually hangs out with any kids at this event then they'll be able to stand next to her and see straight up it. Probably not QUITE the intro to The Birds and the Bees that most parents imagine.

Oh, Mischa, Mischa. Mischa. I'm pleased to see you give your sweet new Loubs another twirl, but I'm just not so sure about the rest of it:



The dress itself is kind of super-foofy (and I say that as someone who loves a splash of foof) but I actually think it might have worked in a different color. La Barton is just too pale for this shade. And that's no complaint about her. I myself am wickedly pale-ass because fake-bake turns me orange and I don't care to get skin cancer. Her natural coloring is lovely. But wearing a frock in Recycled Institutional Toilet Paper versus, say, Blushing Celery Root or Shy Eggplant is doing her no favors.

As you know, we switched servers once we joined the Celebuzz network, and with that comes the chance to do a little more housecleaning -- trust us, we definitely know it's looked a little cramped around here lately, kind of like when you move into new digs and you unpack everything as fast as you can just to get the boxes out of your house, but that means your living room looks like a flea market until you figure out where it all should go. That's where we are right now -- discussing what design and functionality tweaks we can make so that everything fits together a bit more seamlessly.

It may take a little time -- we don't want to rush it along just for the sake of it, like Back To The Future III. But we also don't want to make people wait forever and ever and ever for sweet satisfaction, like with Seriously, Dude, Where's My Car? (which as far as we can tell, is still an urban legend; WHY, Ashton, WHY?!?). So consider this your status update: We hear you, we're on it, and we love you.

Incidentally, Intern George loves you, too. He just told me so.

Update: We are, however, THRILLED to note that we now have pagination at the bottom of the home page -- meaning, you can leaf backwards through our entries, in reverse-chronological chunks, rather than having to click on each month's archive to see if you missed anything that fell off the home page. 

Dear Kim Kardashian,

Please remember this photo two years from now when you are arrested for having crack cocaine in your makeup bag -- discovered after you run down step-brother Brody Jenner with a tractor --  or when you discover the paparazzi riffling through your underwear drawer, and you're incensed about those terrible invasions of privacy :


[Photo: Splash News]

Wait, let's take a closer look at the tee:

You have to applaud Pamela Anderson's consistency. The woman is so committed to her melon shelf that I am burying the photo after the jump, just in case you have children cavorting around or you're at work and your boss has a strict No Nipples policy.

On one hand, yes:

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

JULIETTE LEWIS: Oh my GOOOOOOD, it's YOOOU! Heyyyyy!

CAMERON RICHARDSON: Hey, Juliette. That's a nice... bra. Is your shirt supposed to be open, or did you just unzip it?

JULIETTE: So, like, WHAAAT is the deal with you? Are you dead?

CAMERON: Dead? Excuse me?

JULIETTE: On Lost! Are you dead? Why are you hanging out with Jack's dad?

CAMERON: I think there's been a misunderstanding.

JULIETTE: And what happened with your character on Dawson's Creek? Pacey was so cute.

CAMERON: It's...

JULIETTE: What was it like going from that show to Laguna Beach, though? Was it, like, totally rock-and-roll BITCHIN', or was it a bummer?

CAMERON: I'm not any of those people.

JULIETTE: Whaaaaat? You're not Kate Hudson?

CAMERON: Kate Hudson isn't any of those people, either.

JULIETTE: Duuude, my crochet hat must be too tight today! I just thought Kate was here doing some Method study on what it's like to be a waitress at El Wacko Taco.

CAMERON: Nooo....

JULIETTE: So sorry! Can I at least get two pitchers of margaritas for my table? And some guac. It's soooooo soothing on your face on a hot night.

CAMERON: Look, lady... wait, hang on, I would actually kind of love to see that. Be right back.

The good news is, I love Mischa's shoes.



The bad news is, she was a little too inspired by her napkin-folding seminar.

I'm sure I'm supposed to be impressed by Agyness Deyn's punky I-care-about-wanting-you-to-think-I-don't-care style, but seriously, unless she is ten minutes away from time-traveling into 1987 and being told she looks good wearing Eric Stoltz's future, she might want to let it go. There's ripped jeans, and then there's pants with more ladders than a game of Donkey Kong. Yawn.

Oh, Sami. I just don't think so:



I sort of get where you're going with this, but doesn't feel a bit like you stole it from a Days extra? Someone who swanned around in the background while Marlena was busy being possessed, and one of her demonic actions was to flip up the the hem of everyone's dress, evilly exposing their slip -- or WORSE?!!? Or perhaps an extra who was a bridesmaid at some doomed nuptials, who was swiftly carried off by a tornado or a blizzard or a tidal wave or an earthquake or a serial killer or the plague? Or even just an extra who was being punished by hair and makeup by being banned from the services of both? Sami, you're better than that.

When I saw this, I was like, "She looks so PRETTY! Is that a pillow case? But she's so pretty! But IS it a pillowcase? But it might be a GOOD pillowcase. My head hurts."

You might remember Jason Davis from the short-lived Hollywood supercouple "Jason Davis and Courtney Peldon," from such grossitude as being Brandon Davis's brother, or from being awarded a prize in our book simply for being unfortunate enough to be born into an icky sibling duo (in which we did note, to be fair, that even being the nicest person in the world -- which he might be, as far as we know -- can't rescue Jason from being tarred by the potency of Brandon's clammy funk).

Anyway: Jason Davis was a bit of a burly sort in his day, but I vaguely remember reading that he had some health problems and that he was busted for allegedly possessing heroin, or something, and well, maybe all of that rolled together -- plus possibly no longer wanting to be identifiable as the brother of a pig who is prone to racist tirades -- explains how Jason has come to lose so much weight that he's slowly becoming unrecognizable.


[Photo: Splash News]

Then again, the way he's wearing those pajama pants as formalwear, maybe he's just angling for a job modeling in the Eddie Bauer catalog.

But the clothes pale in comparison to the problems of his head-suit. Take a closer look, if you are brave enough:

A Play in Three Acts:

ACT ONE: THE MEETING:

PAULA: Hello....? Do I...? Are we....?

PHOEBE: Let's take a picture, Paula! Imagine how well a photo of two such classy celebrities such as ourselves will sell! You are a famed songstress, and I a brave warrior for the civil liberties of F-list celebrities!

PAULA: Have I been drinking?

ACT TWO: THE PRESS OP

PAULA: Psst, you guys! Who is this person? Also, does the bodice of my dress look like I stuffed it with toilet paper? I can't tell.

PHOEBE: Guest-judge spot on Idol, HERE I COME!

PAULA: I feel like my face is making that bemused look but I can't control it.

ACT THREE: THE REASON FOR THE SEASON

PAULA: OH! You're the Miss Golden Globe of this event! I GET IT NOW.

PHOEBE: Another step toward my world domination!

As I type, I'm watching a commercial about shutters that says, "Get them custom fit. Lose the junk!"

The same rule applies to Mischa Barton's pants.


[Photo: Splash News]

PROPER pants would totally clear out the junk collecting in her treasure trunk. The camel-toe there, especially when she stands that way, is verging on a lump the likes of which would make a male ballet dancer jealous. I could understand Mischa not noticing this, what with all the distractions posed by her fungal shirt -- it's like body armor for lace addicts -- or the fact that those pantggings are almost certainly chafing in ways that might ruin her weekend. This is why Mischa needs people. She needs a friend who can, as a secondary function, wrangle her polterwang. Ghostbust the ghost-bulge. Manage the man-meat mirage. The job might not pay well, but I bet it comes with full medical and dental. And complimentary therapy.

Wait, did I miss something?

When did The Addams Family become a ballet?

Well, well, well. Would you look at that? For the first time in approximately 12,000 years, I don't hate the Harper's Bazaar cover. I still hate the way they lay out the copy (for some reason, that font and layout makes it seem like there's no SUBSTANCE to the magazine at all, like it's a fake rag you'd see in the background of some fluffy rom-com where Reese Witherspoon is the editor-in-chief of a bridal magazine but -- gasp! -- can't find a man herself ), and the sort of weird boob-sling/armpit-draping is....weird, but she looks like herself. She doesn't appear to have a wasting disease or any extra limbs. She is the color she is supposed to be and not orange like a traffic cone. Her head does not appear to be Photoshopped on. Those are probably her own teeth. She's not wearing chain mail, or hot pants, or knee-socks over her ears. There are no cloying quotes floating around her head, like "Life is so simple now! Thanks to my staff of twelve," or "I know now that I can do anything! Because I have all the advantages and money in the world." She just looks relaxed, and pretty. I'd like to buy some of that.

My theory is that Lauren Hutton was performing a giant social experiment: If she wore a see-through shirt jammed into high-waisted trousers, would anyone even notice if she spoke total gibberish?



You'll be happy to know that, in fact, everyone DID notice. She was accepting some sort of "award" from Bravo and started talking cryptically about how long she'd been awake, before launching into a very insightful, deeply sane monologue about bonus uses for the trophy that includes the phrase "guacamole smasher" -- which, coincidentally, is also going to be the name of the band I will form in the next five minutes. Jessica will contribute backup vocals and some solos on the spoons, while Intern George's career as a serial dater will make him well qualified to play the jugs. ZING! Oh yes I DID just go there.

Also, if you follow that link and watch the clip, RIGHT at the beginning for a split second, you can see none other than the magnificent Mr. John Basedow sitting in the background... and if you don't know who he is, well, you don't watch enough late-night television. Lauren Hutton probably recognized him, since she had been up for 46 hours, and I'm sure at least SOME of that was watching a Ninja Warrior marathon during which she saw ads for his fitness program. Maybe it was his ad that bewitched her sleepless brain into attempting the whole shirt test. At least Lauren proved that people WERE paying attention to her words and not just her underwear. Even Jerry Springer seems to be looking at her like he's desperately trying to decipher the puzzle -- although come to think of it, Jerry Springer thinking he's never heard anything as crazy as you might actually be a bit WORSE than if no one had noticed what you said at all.

Wow, Nicole Scherzinger's solo album MUST have tanked -- she is not only back at it awfully fast with the Pussycat Dolls, but she looks about as happy to be there as if someone just came up to her and asked for an autograph because they thought she was Kim Kardashian.

[Photo: Splash News]

I have to say, though, I'm so glad they're back. Not because I need to listen to their music -- and not because I'm okay with the fact that the REALLY tranny one quit the band -- but because they have to much to teach me. They do things with suspenders that I never thought possible. They turn button-down shirts into leotards. They treat tube tops like they're meant to be worn in public. Nicole looks like she's filming a Pepto Bismol commercial that will air in space, and I'm pretty sure that one chick up there on the left has a shoulder pad stuck in her bra. All of which means we'll probably see them at a party, or the supermarket, in these clothes because they like to treat their video costumes like uniforms. Bless. And let's not forget the most important lesson: Now we all know exactly what to do and wear when the apocalyptic plague of bubbles inevitably arrives. Their assignment for the next video is to teach me how to cope with the interminable months between Lost seasons, although maybe I'll start by getting a bubble cannon of my own.

Something about this dress makes me tiiiiiired.



I just want to slump down in my chair and take a deep, snoring nap. Kind of the way it's slumping down and blousing over her stomach -- a stomach, incidentally, that does not EXIST in any other dress I've seen her wear -- and giving the effect that it's blowing a raspberry at me.

As you may have heard, our charming and resourceful intern George recently broke up with his girlfriend, Sarah Larson. Sure, there were a few days when our cocktails were salted by his man tears, but Intern George is nothing if not resilient. We are confident that he will find yet another tallish, semi-anonymous brunette to squire within a matter of days. In fact, he's at the post office now -- he could come back with a girlfriend in half an hour. As for Sarah? We're sure she's going to be fine. In fact, we figured it out very scientifically:

"Win or lose the Cloons, Larson was still guaranteed to come out ahead. To illustrate this, we'll employ a little system we call the Al Reynolds Scale of Social-Ladder Climbing. Assuming a value of zero represents Larson's notoriety prior to hooking up with Himself -- back when she was just a wannabe catwalk queen slinging vodka tonics in the modeling capital of the world, Las Vegas -- let's see where she ranks now that she's gone through the George Clooney tunnel of love and popped out the other side."

Please, feel free to check our math at NY Mag.com.

Oh, BECKS:


Is this what happens when Victoria is out of town? You show up at Gordon Ramsey's new restaurant looking like you might be one of the waiters? Unless you're just really bored in her absence and you have actually taken a gig as one of waiters, in which case I would love a refill on this drink.

At first I didn't get this whole trend of having a second dress essentially stitched around your first one.



But suddenly, thanks to Kim Raver, I see it, and I can't believe it took this long to hit me: It's like a hybrid between the infinite dress, an apron, and roll of toilet paper. Wear it out on the town, and if it wrinkles or tears -- or Brooke Shields throws a drink on you to try and snap you out of the delusion that the new bangs work on your face -- you can just rip it off and there will be a fresh new outfit in its place. It's sanitary AND it saves on dry-cleaning bills. Genius! Why did no one think of this before?

Congrats to Candace Bushnell on her upcoming memoir, And The Bride Wore Boob Yarmulkes. I'm sure it will make a stunning Lifetime extravaganza -- somebody get that sassy Crystal Bernard on the phone, stat!

Okay, now I'm worried.


[Photo: Splash News]

I mean, what poor, sad, troubled soul would wear a satin tribute to a bleeding deer... with THOSE SHOES? Clearly this girl needs help.

And yes, that IS Bambi, America's second-favorite orphan (behind Annie both alphabetically and in musical ability), up there being decapitated. I greatly look forward to the day when Disney releases the rest of its Macabre Fairy-Tale Wedding gows: the Beast being beheaded, Ariel being eaten with a plate of chips, Cinderella's glass slipper shattering and chopping her foot to smithereens, and of course -- THE HORROR -- Amy Adams shaving Patrick Dempsey's signature coif.

I kind of love Nicole Richie. I find her sort of interesting and I usually like what she wears and she seems sort of funny and I like her and Joel together and every time I see her out with cute little Harlow, it makes me happy because she seems happy and she used to seem so unhappy and I am a sucker. That being said, how do I feel about this? I dunno.



I like the tee, and it turns out that it's to benefit The Children's Health Fund, which helps provide health care for kids in need and is clearly a very good cause. (I'd link to a place where you can buy them -- for the CHILDREN! -- but I can't really seem to find it on the interwebs because I suck. EDITED: Thank you, readers! You can buy them here.) And I think it's awesome that she and Madden are doing so much charity work now instead of driving the wrong way down freeways and...I don't know, whatever Joel was doing before. Thinking about Hilary Duff? And she looks good....you know, generally. But the tight skinny black pants and the blazer and the eye makeup and the eye makeup and then all the eye makeup is just overwhelming. I think. Right?

Oh, GERI:

Do not get me wrong. Angelina Jolie could appear on the cover of a magazine wearing a barrel and picking her teeth with a pocket knife and she would look gorgeous. I find her to be inhumanely fabulous. Ergo, it's shocking to me that Vanity Fair seemed to feel that she would benefit from the kind of help that the rest of us ladies occasionally resort to in order to fabulous ourselves up, namely the tried-and-true trio of cleavage, big sexy bedhead, and major lips. Those are classics because they tend to work and I support them daily, but I think on someone like Angelina, who is already extra sexy-looking thanks to the miracle of genetics, they combine to be...a bit much. I mean, her boobs are clearly mesmerizing, but I read a comment about this cover which opined that she looks a bit more like a blow-up doll than she probably wants to, and I have to agree. Especially since they pulled a quote from her that uses the word "sexy" twice in one sentence and also slapped the word "oral" right next to her face. Like, we get it: Angelina Jolie is sexy. The earth is round. Marc Jacobs makes cute accessories. These are truths so well-known that some people are actually kind of sick of hearing them. Angelina's smart, and her life is interesting, so I find it hard to believe that she, of all people, needs the Sexed-Up Treatment to move magazines, especially Vanity Fair which purports to be rather brainier than your average rag. Frankly, I'd be more interested in buying the one where she's wearing the barrel.

Apparently, I am supposed to be clutching my pearls in horror at the whole Sarah Jessica Parker dress controversy -- namely, that this gown had been worn before not once but TWICE, which has caused SJP to say things about how she is so disappointed in the designer for this terrible oversight and has the media claiming it's trashing her "fashion icon" status. Come on, really? I get that Sex and the City hinges on being able to brag about all the free, so-fresh-off-the-catwalk-it-hasn't-even-been-on-it-yet clothes it uses, so this was an important premiere, but let's get some perspective here. Would it REALLY have been better if she'd worn never-before-seen electric blue-and-chartreuse leggings, simply because they'd yet to skim another human's inner thigh? Has it really RUINED EVERYTHING? Do we all NEED to be running off and slamming our bedroom doors so that everyone knows we are having a wicked-serious tantrum?  Just ONCE I wish someone would be like, "You know what? I don't care. The dress is awesome, and I looked hot. Big freaking deal."

Having said that, let's have a squizz at Marchesa's Georgina Chapman:



And now let's bring in Lake Bell, from back in April:

Thank god gay marriage is finally legal in the great state of California, because I totally want to marry Posh:



Yes, there are some obstacles to that plan, above and beyond the fact that we have technically never met. Namely, I am a heterosexual. Also, she is already married. And now I'm going to have to worry about convincing the INS that she's not just in this for the green card. However, these are but small obstacles, as I know that we must share our lives. (Also, I feel like she and Becks and I can totally work out something mutually beneficial.) I love her, and the thought of going through life without Victoria Beckham fills me with despair. I love her sassy haircut and her wicked dominatrix sandals. I love her giant, blingy rings. I love her insanely short skirt and ruffle-esque collar. I love that her dress is made of hearts. I even love her crazy tan. I love her. I would be so sad if she were to go away. And so I must clutch her to my bosom, bind her with matrimonial vows, and never let her go. Cavalli can make our gowns, then I can decide mine is too gaudy and have a big hissy and wear Oscar de la Renta, because that's how I roll. Andre Leon Talley will officiate. Will Smith will perform a medley of "Getting Jiggy Wit It," "Just The Two of Us," and, in an surprisingly self-centered move, "Will 2K." Katie Holmes will stand up for my bride, and Victoria and I will have several hushed conversations in which we try and figure out how to prevent Tom from making an embarrassing toast, and then we will just give up and have more champagne.  J.Lo will stand up for me, because I feel like J.Lo would make an awesome matron of honor: shit would get DONE, she'd make sure you were wearing the finest mink eyelashes, and you know she'd throw you a very fancy shower. We will register at Bergdorf's, Mystic Tan, and Bed, Bath and Beyond. There will be giant expensive sunglasses and sugarfree gum in the gift bags. It is going to be awesome. Victoria, I beseech thee, make an honest woman of me!

There are some looks that are so over the top that you have to kind of embrace the delight that comes with the crazy. Like this:


Naomi Campbell is looking at us like, "Yeah, I know. Pink crocodile coat, bejeweled turban and velvet open-toed slippers. I started to say something when he got in the car and then I realized....I don't want to change this."  I wonder if when Naomi called him and told him she was wearing an YSL jumpsuit in memoriam, he decided that nothing goes with harem pants like an awesome turban and threw this together. And while I have to note that when I first saw this picture, I sent an IM to Heather which read, "OMG HAVE YOU SEEN ALT? LOOK LOOK LOOK LOOK" and then one which read, "Wait. Was it a theme night?" and then one which read, "HAVE YOU LOOKED YET? LOOK LOOK," I have to salute a man who wears a bejeweled turban with a pink croc coat anywhere. Certainly, it is crazy, but it is the sort of crazy that fills me with delight instead of rage.

Hilary Duff has been looking so nice lately since she started dating the hockey player. Remember when she was with Joel Madden, and she was all jawbone and teeth? Not so any more -- she's fit but also clearly not afraid to sit back and watch the Stanley Cup finals with her boyfriend Mike Comrie and a bucket of hot dogs, because she no longer seems like she's averse to things like chewing.

However, all my recent warm-and-fuzzy Duff feelings aside, I'm really lukewarm on this.



The color is sort of cool, but the entire effect -- specifically caused by the hemline -- is a bit mature. It's like two parts Eva Longoria (whom I've said before often seems to dress as if she's auditioning to work the lounge on a Carnival Cruise) and one part Tragic Simpster, which would make sense because they're both Michael Kors fans and Hilary took some photos on his arm at this party. Of course, I have nothing against Michael Kors. He seems like a party. But even if he's NOT responsible for this, he probably should have considered making her take this up a few inches. Just because Hilary's boyfriend probably wears dentures, as any hockey player worth his bodycheck does, doesn't mean she's looking to start rumors that her next album is called Hilary Duff Sings Bette Midler's Greatest Hits.

TONY PARKER: Honey? Are you drunk?

EVA LONGORIA PARKER: HOW DARE YOU? Why would you even ASK ME THAT?

TONY: Well...you look kinda drunk. And it would explain the eye make-up.

EVA: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

TONY: I am kind of scared of you. I wonder if there is someone here who could...help me.

EVA: WHY WOULD YOU NEED HELP? GOD!

TONY: Because I am worried one of your boobs might make a run for it out of that dress. Or that you might pass out. It is kinda tight, don't you --

EVA: WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? JESUS!

TONY: ...anyone? Help? Please?

Since we started this site, there have been definite periods where there's a lot out there that's bad, but just run-of-the-mill MODERATELY bad, where it doesn't get your pulse racing, or cause you to choke on a frothing geyser of awe and "Whaaaaaa?!?" And then, bless, someone comes along again and thrills us anew with an "OH my GOD, WHAT IS UP?" getup; today, that person is Maggie Gyllenhaal, and we owe her a debt of gratitude.

Because, say it with me here: Oh my GOD, WHAT IS UP?



At first, based on the '80s shades and the slouchy, shlumpy clothes that are Kirsten Dunst's trademarks, I thought this WAS our girl Kiki, half-heartedly attempting to go incognito with a bad wig so people would stop making her talk about why she went to rehab. But no. It is Maggie G., energetically making the "G" stand for "geriatric." No mere dress over pants, this; she's practically wearing a caftan over cocktail pajamas, and yet she is sporting the peekaboo panel under her boobs, like in case she runs into Ned Beatty she wants him to know she's still ALL WOMAN, even though her rheumatism flares up sometimes. Ellen Burstyn is totally going to call Maggie later and ask if she can borrow this (except of course, she's going to call Kirsten Dunst first by accident, at which point Kirsten is going to join in our "WTF?" chorus and write Maggie an angry letter explaining that there is NO ROOM in the Ray Bans market for her), but Ellen is going to have to get in line, because Phylicia Rashad will have already called dibs. Pretty soon, Peter Saarsgard will be registering Maggie for an AARP membership so they can get the wicked discounts, and she'll be hawking Centrum Silver in Good Housekeeping.

It's so special. Seriously, I think I just fell in love with her a little bit. Thank you, Maggie. And I'm sure a resentful Kirsten Dunst will be getting in touch soon; maybe turn your hearing aid off that day.

Poor J. Simp. She doesn't look half bad, but you want to forestall tabloid covers calling you a Sad, Desperate Spinster who CAN'T STAND that her sister got married and sprogged up while you're still Desperately, Sadly Searching For Love, don't go out in a black gown and a sad expression. You are only giving US Weekly a photo to run on the cover of the JESSICA: STABBED IN THE HEART, AGAIN, AND THIS TIME IT REALLY HURT issue. And while we're on the subject, can I just say how ridiculous it is that every magazine in Hollywood seems to be peeing themselves with horror over the fact that J. Simp hasn't managed to get married again yet? She's not even 30! She had a terribly painful divorce! LET THE GIRL DATE AROUND. The earth will not stop spinning on its axis, throwing us all into everlasting darkness and terror, if Jessica Simpson has a few years of confusing relationship troubles LIKE EVERY OTHER PERSON WHO EVER LIVED.

And thus concludes the entry in which I defend Jessica Simpson.

She looks about as happy as I would, if I were forced into this:


[Photo: Splash News]

It's like formal wear for prisoners in an old-timey movie about lady chain gangs. All she needs is a ball and chain and a sob story.

I think Simon Cowell is a great judge on American Idol. But I'm beginning to suspect he is a lousy boyfriend.

Half the advantage of dating him -- you know, aside from private jets, and the fact that he will go with you to the local beauty supply store on a Saturday afternoon (which I once witnessed them doing together) -- should be the brutal honesty. You know, the idea that if you so much as brushed the fabric of this jumpsuit with your elbow, he would roll his eyes and say, "I'm gonna be honest with you: That is absolutely terrible," or maybe, "If that's what you're gonna wear, then you'd better pack your bags tonight, because that's not going to be enough to keep you in any competition except for Survivor: M.C. Hammer's Harem." So either Terri Seymour made the mistake of not consulting him here, in which case she needs to install a videoconferencing terminal in her closet for when he's out of town, or Simon was only PRETENDING he could see her from behind the piles of "Bleeding Love" profits he was counting on the bed -- in which case, he had better hope that wall of Benjamins is whirling-stiletto-proof.

"WHAT UP, MTV nation, I am BACK!"

"It's me! Lindsay! Star of Mean Girls and and Freaky Friday and... let's skip a few here... ah yes, those commercials for the MTV Movie Awards! And Ugly Betty! And now I'm working on something else!  It's this movie about... stuff! GOOD stuff! Stuff where I don't play a stripper who loses all her limbs, or anything! I think! Anyway, I'm back and I'm in cute shoes and my pupils aren't weirdly dilated and I need my roots done, because I'm REAL yo, and I totally DO NOT CARE that my mother and my sister are trying to get famous by talking about me all the time on their dumb show. I am NOT bothered by the fact that they have their own press appearances and paparazzi attention, and like, I SO AM NOT EVEN WORRIED about the fact that more people have talked about my sister watching grainy footage on the Internet that CLAIMED to be me having sex, than they have about my current career prospects! IT'S FINE. I don't need to resort to any dumb publicity stunts for people to talk about me, like having a reality show, or wearing really short skirts that might blow up if a gust of wind magically comes by at EXACTLY the right moment, or... ahem, i SAID, IF A GUST OF WIND MAGICALLY COMES BY AT EXACTLY THE RIGHT MOMENT... Dammit, Samantha, I gave you ONE JOB... oh, ah, here we go:

You know how it goes: It's a Monday, one weekend just ended and the next one is SO VERY FAR away, and I haven't had caffeine yet. Ergo, I have been staring and staring and staring at this photograph, wondering if there is ANY possible way that I have hallucinated it in my weakened condition.



I mean... tell me honestly: Did I sleep through an apocalypse? Did a new world order declare a pox on willowy blondes, forever dooming them to weird shirts that don't fit? And why do I feel like her boobs are secretly angry robot eyes? Is it judging me? Is it going to replicate? Will a plague of cruel silver corsets rain down on my house later today and make me wear them with gladiator sandals and leggings? Does the new villainous race of cyborgs that clearly just took over our planet REALLY want to dredge up memories of Aeon Flux?

Most importantly, will a Diet Coke make this all go away? I think I owe it to myself to try.