High Fugshion

Candace Bushnell, there is but one woman who can wear a fur turban and get away with it. That woman is Joan Collins. You, Candace Bushnell, are no Joan Collins.

PS: If it's cold enough for a fur turban and a granny sweater, it's too cold for peep-toe shoes. Conversely, if you want to bust out the spring footwear, don't make up for the loss of body heat by dressing like an extra from Julie of the Wolves. You just look confused.

PPS: We're no longer obligated to match our bag and our shoes, as you are clearly aware. You may not have heard, however, that we were never obligated to match our bag to our hat, ESPECIALLY IF THE HAT IN QUESTION IS FUR.

PPS: As a favor to you, we're not going to mention the pants. But, seriously? Brocade? Nyet.

We've raged against the Regina Boot, and we're generally opposed to the reckless deployment of Ugg Boots; now, thanks to a generous and brave reader, Go Fug Yourself is pleased to share with you a boot horror that might have been, but mercifully never came to pass.

We present to you the Teva-Ugg hybrid:

Because we so desperately needed an athletic sandal for winter, this person mixed the clunky, chock-full-o-fur style you've come to revile in the Ugg boot, coupled with the rubbery sole and ugly foot straps from the world's most overrated outdoorsy shoe. [The entire concept of the "athletic sandal" is something we here at Go Fug Yourself find awesomely fugly, but that's a fug for a different day.]

We can imagine the designer sitting back with a satisfied sigh, wiping a way a tear of pride as he/she cooed, "Finally, my Ugg boots can go camping." Yes, finally, furry boots are sporty! Finally, Paris Hilton can go canoeing without sacrificing her sense of style! Finally, Cameron Diaz can head to the beach for some surfing and feel justified doing it in winter footwear! And if a Teva miniskirt would hurry up hit the market, then finally we could all hike in star style!

Evidently a few prototypes were released into the wild, but the boot was never mass-produced or officially sold. And I think we're all alternately grateful and crushed that the Teva-Ugg -- Tugg? Uggva? -- will never know the clammy foot-sweat of a morning-after Lohan. Grateful because there are enough fugly winter boots proliferating in warm climes, and crushed because, well, guessing which starlet would be the first to buy four pairs in custom colors -- or, better, to sponsor a custom-designed version for sale on eBay to benefit Project Foot Odor or something -- would have been a hell of a betting pool.

The following rather spectral vision of fug allegedly comes from a Cortana runway show in Barcelona, although conspiracy theorists may speculate that it's a government photo taken at a UFO crash site somewhere in the Las Vegas desert:

It's translucent, it covers everything, it's not clingy... You know, I think we might finally have found a frock that would flatter Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Okay, who let Lil' Kim design a prom dress?

This is, apparently, an actual dress, made by a Texas company that has advertised it successfully in teen magazines like YM and Seventeen. And the model is not, apparently, wearing it backwards.

Now, I would maybe expect to see something like this on The O.C., just because if any show is likely to have a complete break with fashion reality, that is the one. But ... really? This guy has actually sold some of these. If I had come down the stairs in that thing, my father would have locked me inside the house, burned all my clothes, and replaced them with billowing muumuus -- if he was able to retain hold of his consciousness.

What is wrong with people? It's a school dance. Do you really want your geometry teacher to know the exact diameter of your breasts? Are you really that interested in rendering your English teacher speechless, or perhaps reducing him/her to speaking in tongues? Are you this hell-bent on becoming a stripper?

Sweet God. To quote my esteemed colleague Jessica, "I need to lie down."

I can only hope this runway display doesn't make it into shop windows:

It looks like some designers are taking the poncho trend to its inevitable, horrible conclusion -- shredding them and draping them all over the bodies of catwalk models. This looks like a horrendous knitting accident. She's holding up her hands, like, "Sorry -- the pattern was complicated, you know, and the cats got into my knitting bag and started fighting, and... I'm sorry! I'm SORRY! Stop looking at me like that!"

Sigh. At least an inevitable, horrible, and aggressively draped conclusion is still a conclusion.

The woman who gave us Sarah Jessica Parker in knickers, newsboy caps and short shorts with knee socks looks simply divine at a recent event.

The visible gaping belly button? Adorable! The leather bra? So appropriate. The fedora? Delicious. The... is she wearing gloves? She must be. Delectable. The skirt -- last seen covering a light bulb in a whorehouse? Shiny!

My mother taught me that, after a certain age, one must give up the trappings of one's youth, so as not to look like mutton dressed as lamb, as they say. At this point, Patricia Field is looking like beef jerky dressed as veal, if you'll pardon the stretched metaphor.

For months now, I have had a shoe nemesis, an enemy in the ranks of otherwise loyal and lovely footwear. It befouled displays and yet completely eluded me whenever I embarked upon a quest to locate its picture, for use in this space. It was as if the shoes were taunting me.

I became feverish in my quest. I Googled the style name. I would seek them out at department stores and boutiques, specifically to stand there and fume at their simple fuggery. And I would show people whenever I could, so they would know that the enemy has a toe strap and a 2 1/4-inch heel. In short, it became personal. Inexplicably personal.

Then suddenly, miraculously, the sandals appeared on the Nine West Web site. My nemesis has been digitally captured, for display all around the world. And so I present to you one of the ugliest pairs of shoes, in my very subjective opinion, that I've seen in a long time:

Do not let this innocent photograph fool you: In person, they are much scarier. The pink is not this bright and summery, but has a dull, stale lavender hue to it. When I first saw them at Bloomingdale's, I stopped and studied them. I tugged at the stretchy fabric. I frowned and pursed my lips, unsure exactly what Nine West was trying to do. So I called my roommate over to get a second opinion.

She recoiled a little. "Maybe they look better on," she coughed uneasily.

And so I put the lilac monster on my foot, and lo, they look worse on a foot than they do on a table.

Also, do not let the sale price tempt you: These shoes will fug up the feet of you and everyone that you care about, if you just give them a chance. Stay away. Far away.

I've never been a bigger advocate of granny panties than I am today.

The whole emsemble on the woman on the right has a distinct and alarming "Empress's New Clothes" vibe to it, where the woman mugs and poses as if nothing is wrong, while people (see: woman in the background) watch in quiet disbelief and think, "I wish I could look away from this person's buttocks, but as they are hanging out in plain view under a filmy skirt, I can't really help it and can feel myself growing stupider by the second."

The kicker? This woman, Jemima French (not to be confused with Jemima Khan, the socialite dating Hugh Grant, who mostly only shows off her knickers in the form of a bikini she is wearing while lounging on a yacht and making out with him), is -- or at least tells photographers she is -- a fashion designer. But if this outfit is any indication, Ms. French is probably not a very good fashion designer. Indeed, she might be a very stoned fashion designer. As if there weren't enough problems with a translucent skirt, a gauzy top, black lace undershorts and a garter belt, she paired the aforementioned Lingerie Of The Undead with the frumpiest, clunkiest pump on the planet.

Run, Sadie Frost. Release that woman and run.

New York Fashion Week Fever strikes again. NYFWF is a rare, serious disease that affects mostly women between the ages of 22 and 35. Symptoms include: dressing like Florence Henderson in The Brady Bunch, if there was an episode of The Brady Bunch in which Carol Brady fell into a deep, deep depression and started drinking during the day, leading to drunk shopping and even drunker hair-styling [see subject above, who has a severe case of Bradyism]; delusions and hallucinations; the inability to tell if an outfit is attractive or if it makes you look like your Mom, circa 1971, especially if your Mom was on a serious diet of Quaaludes in 1971; no appetite, leading to emaciation [this symptom not visible in the subject pictured above. Please see: Wintour, Anna; Lauder, Erin; Grubman, Lizzie; any Von Furstenberg you can nab]; a pathological and crippling fear of mirrors and, correspondingly, an avoidance of one's own reflection. Treatment is severe and often requires stay in a rehabilitation center, where the afflicted is: forced to try on clothing that actually fits; fed three meals a day, two of which include carbs; and beaten with a plastic bag full of colored L'Eggs pantyhose [as pictured above on subject's legs] until he or she agrees that the only legwear options that are really acceptable in this day and age are the bare leg or the opaque tight.

Be on the lookout for symptoms of NYFWF in yourself. If you are a woman -- or, more rarely, a man -- interested in fashion, you are at risk. You may find yourself seriously considering buying a pair of Mukluks. You might hear yourself saying, "That Chloe Sevigny looks adorable!" You might decide to wear a pair of gold lame hotpants to the office. If any of these symptoms occur, remove yourself from New York Fashion Week immediately and seek treatment.

Just in case you were concerned that Vincent Gallo had, say, slipped in the bathroom and conked his head and come to, hours later, with the intense desire to take a shower, get a haircut, shave, invest in some Visine, and put on a clean, unwrinkled shirt that doesn't make him look like a creepy drifter hellbent on skinning you and using your pelt as a poncho:

That hasn't happened.