Celebrity Terror Watch

Lindsay Lohan was one thing. But this... this could have been catastrophic, if it were true.

[Photo: Splash News]

I already knew this couldn't really be Anna Wintour, for the very simple reason that the A-Dubs we know and cherish (and fear) NEVER seems to have colored polish on her toenails. But this is cruel indeed: A nefarious, ruthless A-Dubs IMPERSONATOR is running around Paris, befouling Baroness Boberella's reputation by implying that she would DARE step into a pair of leggings, or take a style tip from a messy starlet who's barely one-tenth the Mean Girl our Anna is. Rumor has it The Dubs herself has actually banned leggings from the pages of Vogue. She is our soulmate, clearly. Someone must pay for this deviousness.

Because I prefer to believe the soapiest explanation is the truest one, I've decided French Vogue editrix -- and A-Dubs archrival -- Carine Roitfeld is behind this scheme (not a stretch, considering they once did an Anna-themed spread) to slander the future Mrs. Roger Federer. But you are foiled, Carine! A pox on your scurvy chamber of lies! We may not know anything for sure in this topsy-turvy world, but there is one thing I hold certain when my heavy head hits the pillow at night: The Real Anna Wintour would NEVER appear at a Lanvin show looking like she got sprung late from her Yoga Booty Ballet class. Mais non, bitches.

We got an email from one of our attractive and insightful readers this morning, along with this photo of Lindsay, remarking that it looks like Lindsay woke up "and went insane," and I have to say that I agree, although perhaps it's closer to the truth to say that she woke up and continued to BE insane:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

And yet there is something about this that I almost kind of love. I know, I know, but it's just because she's SO over the top with the HAIR and the FUR and the BAG and the f'ing shiny endless leggings and the PRODUCT PLACEMENT that it's almost hilarious. For one thing, it's so low-rent to accept a surreptitious contract to promote a stop-smoking gum or whatever the heck it is that she's flinging around. For another, I feel like this secret celebrity product placement thing opens up a whole world of possible hilarity for those of us who enjoy celebrity-sighting: ScarJo ostentatiously gulping a Slurpee as part of her secret contract with 7-11, Katie Holmes waving around a package of Tampax, Paris Hilton gallivanting about with a giant bag of Baked Lays over her head.

So potentially, Lindsay has lulled me into an acceptance of her Leggings Habit, as I also think she looks sort of cute here:

Ladies and gents, welcome back to LILO LEGGINGWATCH2008: YET MORE LEGGINGS. Our intrepid heroine has ventured out several times in the last few days -- didn't she recently say she was going to be spending more time in Long Island with her family? Was that a fib? Or was that just a way to get her mother off her back? Or is she avoiding Dina? Is that good? Or are we reading too much into this, needing our daily dose of soaps now that Passions is kaput? If so, does that mean I am also going to start seeing the floating head of Adrian Zmed everywhere I look? -- treating us to YET MORE DELICIOUS BLACK LEGGINGS. Honestly, people, I am getting to the point where I don't even care that she's wearing leggings. LEG IT UP, I say. I DO care that she's ONLY wearing leggings.

To wit, on January 11th:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Is it me, or is she working a sort of weird Bret Michaels look here? I'm sure it's just the Tight Pants + Long Weave Under Funky Headgear look, but I am beginning to wonder (hope) if the "album" she's supposedly "working on" "in the studio" "right now" is ACTUALLY full of covers of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," rendered in different moods -- crabby, hungry, happy, wistful, coke-pants-wearing, bitter, etc.

We get a brief respite from the LEGGINGS on January 13th in the form of this:

So, I've never actually watched Kyle XY. I only barely know what a "Matt Dallas" even is, except that he has an amusingly fake-sounding moniker, like his real last name was something sort of kinky and weird -- or, something taken, like Perry or Damon-- and so he threw a dart at a U.S. map and picked the city it hit as his new alias. Other than that, though, the man who could've been Matt Rambo Riviera is an enigma to me. Well, okay, I've seen him shirtless on all show posters, designed to help us marvel at Mr. XY's lack of belly button, but I'm assuming that's not an affliction Matt Chocolate Bayou contends with in real life. So this leads me back to him being a total blank to me.

What I definitely did not know about Matt Loveladies is that he apparently wears carpet samples on his head.

Seriously, that might well be Matt Gaylordsville's real hair, but it looks like you could lift that thing off and cast it as Toto in a community theater production of The Wizard of Oz.

It's hard to imagine that dating Ashlee Simpson might have been the apex of Ryan Cabrera's short career and life, but seriously, would anyone have known that he's in the studio working on his third album -- or that he even has more than one album out already -- if Wikiepedia weren't around to clutch our sad, ignorant heads to its ample virtual bosom?

As it is, I only know Ryan Cabrera is still around because he is having severe hair trouble.

Oddly, this look now represents the good old days:

Hair tall enough to lose a Ben Roethlisberger action figure in, tips more frosted than a Canadian window in December... at the time we thought, "Wow, this kid is really trying his best to challenge Chad Michael Murray to a duel. It can't get any worse for him."

Then the brunet curls came along:

Jessica already covered our shock and initial mental trauma upon seeing this photo, but it bears repeating: No. And put away the scraggly chest hair.

But instead of moving away from hair that only Johnny Depp should ever try, Cabrera has attempted to gild this wilted, rotting lily:

Dear Brad,

Listen, I feel you. I have these two waffle-knit cotton shirts from The Gap that have been my go-to lately for bumming around the house pecking away at my blog and watching Brothers & Sisters and Days of our Lives. Speaking of which, don't you think they should have Marlena get possessed by the devil again? Soaps are in trouble. That would probably help. Everyone loves Satanic undereye bags, contact lenses, and levitation. Some folks might just call that "Thursday," but I think it makes for compelling afternoon procrastination material.

But that's not why I'm here. My point is: I know how it feels to be in a rut of wearing comfortable clothes. I do. And yet, I also don't live on the red carpet. Here you are at the Beowulf premiere:

It's not that you DON'T have a nice coat. Or a nice shirt. I'm sure your pants are lined with angels. Expensive angels that you can only borrow from Heaven because you and your half-wife, "Angel"ina, cooked up and squeezed out the undisputed (until Suri Cruise rises to power) savior of our land.

No, my concern here is that I saw this picture and thought, "The hat AGAIN? I feel like all he does is wear this hat." You do seem to have been leaning on the newsboy cap rather a lot lately. What gives, Brad? What's the breaking story?

Welcome home, Lucy Davis. It's been a long road. Like, seriously long. Imagine being forced to rewatch every episode of Heroes' horrible second season in one sitting without a bottle of wine, a cheesecake, a remote to fast-forward through the Wonder Twins and Mopey Lovelorn Hiro In Feudal Japan, or a blunt object within reach. That's the kind of frustration and agony we felt sometimes.

So, it's nice to have you back:

[Photo: Splash News]

And with new hair, to boot. Hair that does not look like it recently caught on fire, perhaps while you were using your actual iron on it. And your skin no longer appears as though you waxed it with a melted pumpkin candle. I am thrilled about this, because you seem very lovely, and it was horrible seeing you parading around town styled like somebody's drunk, chain-smoking granny who holidays in Cornwall by the sea using nothing but baby oil -- that is, when she's not glued to her pub stool.

I'm not comfortable calling off the alert altogether yet, because as I've noted before, you cannot be trusted with consistency. Still, we can find it in our unbronzed hearts to take you down a few notches on the terror chart -- let's say, to Guarded from High/Severe. We're not ready to call you a sane person until you've gone several consecutive months without dipping even a toe into the Bronze Sea.

Appendix: TANOREXIA WATCH TERROR CHART

It's time.

After countless warnings, we are finally at a full-on Red Alert at GFY HQ. It wasn't someone's rapid descent into skeevitude that sent us speeding down the highway to the danger zone; rather, it was an old nemesis -- the Mendoza to our McBain, the Gargamel to our Papa Smurf -- that has us worried.

This man's resolute refusal to tone down the crazy eyes -- some drops, maybe? Glasses? A blindfold? -- has us fairly sure he is not only hungry, but craving a romantic dinner for two with Hannibal Lecter over some fava beans, a nice Chianti, and the liver of an innocent.

I was thinking to myself yesterday, "you know, I haven't seen Clay Aiken for a while. I wonder what he's up to?"

Yes, friends, he was locked up in his basement with The Trumpinator2000, an elaborate machine similar to a Bowflex, which -- in only 20 minutes a day, three days a week -- will eventually transform your face, hair and brows from whatever they used to be into something more closely resembling  The Donald.  Women (especially those with bad eyesight) will flock to you! Your friends will claim to be "amazed" and "stunned"! Your mother will cry! Probably with joy, because who doesn't dream of her baby turning himself into a wee Trumplette, right? A steal for even the regular Joe at just six payments of $79.99, The Trumpinator2000 is thrilled to have superstar Clay Aiken as its first celebrity spokesperson!

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.