During Fug Madness, there was much debate over costumes vs. actual clothes, and how much each one should count toward a celebrity's overall fugliness. (One of the beauties of that tournament -- and I mean this sincerely -- is how it gives us a chance to discuss those issues as if they're as crucial as whether or not to impose government regulation on banks. Love it.) I say, it all counts, because YOU CAN ALWAYS SAY NO. It is never too late to come to your senses, whether you're performing or at the Oscars or going to the grocery store. This is why Lady Gaga's rampant pantlessness is fair game. If that's a role she's playing, then girlfriend inhabits it as wholly as any if she were expecting an Oscar nod.
Pursuant to that, I often find myself wondering, "But how far does she push it? Like, let's say she's traveling. Does she wear pants then?"
[Photo: WENN.com]Per this photo taken at Heathrow, the answer is, not entirely. She is not wearing a leotard, which is great unless you bought a ticket for this flight hoping to see a few cartwheels in the aisle and maybe a split or two. However, I SUSPECT those are sequined hot-pants -- and, yes, they have the word "pants" in there, but much like their close cousins, underpants, the simple presence of those letters in that order does not make them official pants.
How is that comfortable? I am always cold on planes. I'm the girl who keeps her coat with her rather than stowing it in the overhead bin, and drapes it over her body in addition to the paper-thin airplane blanket. Also, when I'm sitting on a plane for however many hours, the last thing I want to do is look down and see nakedly and without censorship what my thighs are doing. How they wrangle the evidence of my belief in eating carbs is their own rotten business. Maybe if I were Lady Gaga, and running around town sharing my thigh business with the world is like second nature, I wouldn't care. Maybe I'd even be fascinated. Maybe I'd turn to my seatmate and start a discussion about it. I guess I don't know. But that sure doesn't look like something comfy to wear on a transatlantic flight when all you want to do is curl yourself up as best you can and kill time watching
National Treasure: Book of Secrets for the 80th time while dreaming of another awfulsome (awful + awesome) sequel called
National Treasure: Pamphlet of Mystery -- or flicks like
Nights in Rodanthe that you were too embarrassed to go see in theaters (and rightly, because they turn out to be REALLY AWFUL and not in a fun way).
Ahem. Moving onto what Gaga wore once on terra firma in London:
