Eva Longoria Parker

We haven't featured Roisin Murphy nearly enough on our site -- I have a strong feeling she'll be a sleeper contender in Fug Madness this year. Because for her, this is fairly tame:

I wish it were a better angle on her hair, which sits in a coil on the top of her head like a tempting fresh breakfast pastry. She and the lank-haired Nicole Richie rubbed elbows at the Diesel show on Tuesday night, at which the celeb section was cordoned off to protect the likes of Kate Bosworth from prying reporters. BORING.

Earlier in the day, we got an earful of both Khloe and Kim Kardashian at Badgley Mischka, during which Kim told a story about Reggie Bush being startled by naked models. I know, it sounded wrong to me too.

Then we saw Eva Longoria Parker's stylist try to restrain her from bad choices at Matthew Williamson, and a relatively blah Rachel Bilson in the front row at Max Azria. Finally, we rounded out the day with: a little sass and spandex at Baby Phat, where Aubrey O'Day covered up slightly more of her boobs and ANTM's Whitney Thompson picked up the slack; and Narciso Rodriguez's show, where Kanye West finally whipped out the sunglasses and brought a woman in red plastic leggings. That Kanye always gives us something we can stare at unabashedly. At a 9 p.m. show after a long day, there is no greater present.

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?

There is nothing Eva Longoria loves more than a nice, subtle understatement.

Although there is a part of me that appreciates this drama -- kind of the way I thought it was deeply ridiculous in a HILARIOUS way that Celine Dion gave all her wedding guests a large photo album full of glamour shots of herself, and then a while later had a second wedding that I believe involved riding elephants -- I just can't help wondering if Eva thinks that every time she sets foot in France, she needs to remind us all of her lavish wedding. Cannes is a big, fancy deal, sure, but did she really need to deprive every ballet academy in Europe of its tulle supply? I would suggest Eva is the female embodiment of Bobby Trendy, but frankly, Bobby Trendy is already sort of the female embodiment of Bobby Trendy. And somewhere out there, looking at this photo, he is having an aneurysm of pleasure.

Note number one for Eva Longoria Parker:  You have GOT to blend your makeup a bit better. Your forehead is way paler than your shoulders and it is weird, like you've got the forehead of a vampire but the neck of a marginally talented actress. You've got to make your Makeup Bitch blend! Blend! Or is it possible that you've crossed your Makeup Bitch one too many times and she's now making you pay by doing you up like the Cranky Undead? In which case: e-mail us, Makeup Bitch. We'd like to buy you a box of wine.

Otherwise, I have a query for you:

Admittedly, I haven't bought or read InStyle in a long time, because it's a little too rich for my blood -- I don't walk by Banana Republic and think to myself, "Aw, how sweet, a bargain-basement store" -- but this past weekend I snapped up the March 2008 issue with Eva Longoria on the front, because it was wickedly hideous and I had to have it.

Inside she says, "It makes me feel old, but I love it," and she's referring to being called "Mrs. Parker" when they're in Texas, but it might also refer to the cover photo.

Seriously, that doesn't even really look like her face to me. It's so... sharp. In my mind's eye, that's actually a Miami Beach socialite in her late thirties who just got fresh cheek implants, and is about to start a gig on a cruise ship opening for Kathie Lee Gifford at the Lido Deck Lounge.

Even InStyle clearly felt so concerned that you wouldn't recognize the pursed lips and cocked brows that the designers chucked any reference to the story inside (a peek inside her closet, which offers almost nothing interesting or surprising except MAYBE that she owns an entire wall full of black shoes and a minimum of $7000 in Louboutins), in favor of slapping her name over the picture in the biggest font size possible, as if to be like, "No, SERIOUSLY, it's HER. WE'D GET SUED FOR THIS IF IT WEREN'T, SO IT HAS TO BE." Although frankly, if I were her, I might sue them for it anyway.

Even though we largely ignore all of them now, I still remember all those old fashion rules people used to follow -- no white after Labor Day/before Easter Sunday, no navy and black or black and brown together, don't wear black to a wedding or red to a funeral... They're all things of the past now -- well, except for the "no red at funerals" thing, unless maybe you are on a soap opera, or are a complete bitch; preferably both -- but they pop up every now and then in my head so that I can chuckle at how stressed out I used to be about when I could resume plans to steal my sister's white pumps, and shove tissue in the toes so that they'd be my size.

One principle did stick in my mind a little more solidly, though, and that is the notion that red and pink are clashing colors. While obviously this can work in some specific patterns, I still find myself turned off by certain deployments of them together. Enter Mrs. Longoria-Parker:

These two just colors patched together in such brutal blocks make my head throb. I hope she is carrying some Advil in her purse. It might have been nice of her to throw fistfuls of it at her adoring public.

Oddly, the whole thing reminds me of a box of Nerds. You know, the way they'd separate two different flavors (cinnamon and peppermint, cherry and watermelon) in one box. Nerds were the greatest greatest candy discovery of my sixth- and seventh-grade life, right up there with Pixy Styx. But that doesn't mean I am loving watching Eva trot around in a color-scheme homage to those brave little cavity nuggets. Willy Wonka makes a mean sweet treat, but he's hardly a competent stylist.