Golden Globes

Stumpy is the watchword:

For real, Bell.  You're as cute as a sassy little pixie, but when you're five foot nothing , it does you no good to bury yourself in smog-colored gauze, kinda maybe belt it, throw on a lairet and call it a day. You're all lost under all that stuff.

Or wait. Maybe you're undercover. Maybe someone at the Globes killed your stylist and you're in disguise and on the case. That explains a lot.

I don't know what the deal is Alanis Morissette.

Are she and Dreamy Ryan Reynolds into kinky role playing sex games? Because the last time we saw her, she looked, as Heather put it, "like Demi Moore circa 1987, if she'd been cast as Billie Jean King in a CBS Miniseries Event." Now, she's more like the oldest daughter in Eight is Enough, starring in a community theatre production of The Sound of Music, and this is her costume for the scene in which Captain Von Trapp throws the ball, and she's only supposed to be watching the children until they sing their little song and scamper up the stairs, and then the Baroness talks him into letting her stay for dinner -- mostly, of course, to vaguely humiliate her and her convent-learned manners -- and she claims she has nothing to wear, and indeed puts on a this homespun looking little frock which pales next to the Baroness's shiny gold outfit, and of course, it doesn't matter, because Maria's spunky goodness is more than enough for the Captain to decide that there isn't going to be any Baroness, but in this instance, I think this is a little too All Natural Fibers Woven By Blind Carmelites, topped off with a haphazard salute to toplessness.

Aw. She looks so happy. I don't have the heart to tell her that, although the punch IS spiked, the Golden Globes aren't the same thing as prom night at the honky-tonk bar.

The day Sharon Stone stops thinking she's every man's dominatrix fantasy is the day Courtney Peldon wins a Golden Globe. Look at this woman -- she's a nutjob, and proud of it. Are those her nipples I can see through that shiny armor? Are those hot pants she's wearing under those strips of filmy fabric?

You know what? It doesn't matter. They are what she says they are, because she makes the rules, you weak little maggot, so get down on your knees and beg mommy for a cookie before she rips out a hunk of your hair and spanks you with a slice of Honeybaked Ham.

It's true that including Bjork on a Web site devoted to fugly fashion is a bit like including Michael Jackson in a game of Death Is Not An Option -- which is to say, unfair, because in the case of the latter, MJ will always lose, because nobody on Earth would actually want to sleep with him [and indeed if posed with something like, "Michael Jackson or John Madden?" would find a way, any way, to make death a very viable option].

My point is, when it comes to all things fugly, Bjork is an island -- The Island of Misfit Clothes. But it's such a fun island sometimes (I hear the hallucinogens are top-notch) that it's impossible to avoid visiting it completely.

This ensemble is from the 2001 Golden Globes. The red and pink shoes are a little frightening, and that bejewelled owl purse might give me nightmares, and the shawl looks more like somebody in the retouching department made a small error with the square brush tool. But what really puts this ensemble in the Bjork Hall of Fug is the glittering homage to Michael Jackson on her skirt. That little detail, that mysterious shrine to a plastic man (assuming that's who it is -- looks like Thriller-era MJ), pushes her beyond the woman on the left who is dressed in aluminum foil. What sort of statement is she making, exactly? What motivates a woman to decide that a wearable portrait of a half-man, half-alien pop star is the perfect complement to an award nomination? Does she find her outfit thrilling? Does she think awards shows are bad, bad, really really bad? Is it some sort of homing beacon for the mothership to pick up Bjork when the ceremony is over?

Whatever it is, one thing is certain: It's time for her to act again. We need her back on the nation's red carpets.

Proving once and for all that a predisposition toward capes is genetic:

This year, Mary-Louise didn't have the benefit of being fresh off the birthing table before accepting her award. To compensate, she chose a dress that would shimmer right over her womb and bunch at its emergency-exit hatch, reminding everyone about her incredible courage in the face of the three C's: childbirth, Crudup, and Claire. "Yes, Virginia," she would say, admiring herself in the mirror, "I do have a working vagina."

Does anyone else think that Adam Duritz looks like a Rastafarian Dan Ackroyd?

There's no more graceful way to say it, so I'll just blurt it out: What the hell is this?

Perhaps it's her Halloween costume from the legendary time she went as a dust ruffle. Or maybe Scarlett O'Hara ran off with the dress that's supposed to go over the petticoat, leaving poor Natalie with no option but to go as she was, dressed like a child bride on her wedding night.

Even Ms. Portman apparently knew she'd fugged it up bigtime: For most of the night after her win for Closer, she was wearing someone's suit jacket over this bizarre wifebeater-turned-sundress. That gives us some hope.

Modeling the latest from the Sears Designer Shower Curtain Collection...

... Diane Kruger.

"Hi, up there! Hello, hello! Could you toss me a jacket, or something? I just realized that this dress totally clings to exactly the wrong section of my body. No, I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea, either. Maybe I was won over by the nifty built-in ventilation. Yeah, I know I'm totally beautiful and could do better -- my mother already called me and chewed me out. Just throw down the jacket, punk!"