Misc. Awards Shows

This woman is bravely providing Exhibit A as to why one should never knit one's own clothes while watching Season 1 90210 reruns on SoapNet. It all seems fun at first, but then you find yourself gawking at Brandon's fluffy mullet and screaming indignantly at the galling way Brenda gets upset and climbs onto the moral high-ground when the 25-year old she's been secretly dating dares to be upset that she lied about being of legal age. Then suddenly Andrea is going on about  The Blaze being the top-ranked high-school newspaper in the country (ha!) and Kelly uses the word "dorkmeyer" and Brandon's ex from Minnesota tells him he's a "wonderful lover" and then he becomes a total self-righteous douchebag and you're yelling at the television and rolling your eyes so hard that they quit working and you're catatonic for a few days... and then, you wake up one day and the dress you were slaving over only has half a skirt. And because you've been so immersed in their world and their clothes, you start to see nothing wrong with wearing it anyway, over a pair of cuffed  knee-length jean-shorts, because hey, Kelly wore some over polka-dot leggings and she was still popular.

Don't let this happen to you. Oh, don't get me wrong, you should still watch the re-runs -- I believe today is mother-daughter fashion show at which Brenda learns Kelly's mother is a cokehead. But just don't mix the Walshes with your wardrobe.

Everything seemed to be going so well. The shirt is cute. The pants... might be cute if they didn't make her right leg look like it had sustained a wound from a Star Wars laser blaster.

But the shoes. The SHOES.

Or -- since, with the Dr. Moreau reference, this is apparently Marlon Brando Week here at GFY -- one might gasp, "The horror. The HORROR."

Anything this bad deserves a closer look. I think that's the Second Law of Fuggodynamics.

Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before Formal Shorts placed a touchy-feely hand onto the knee of The Dreaded Manpri and gave it a loving squeeze.

What's next? We've already seen hints of man-leggings on the catwalk. Will Dress Over Pants be caught copulating greedily with a second pair of pants, giving rise to Pants-Over Pants? Oh, I can't look. It's like The Island of Dr. Moreau over here, except with cotton and no aging, corpulent overlord. And no creepy person-animals.

So really, maybe it's more like the annoying garage chem lab of that girl on Hidden Palms. Either way, I repeat: I am afraid to look... yet cannot look away.

I've looked at this photo of Beyonce for like twenty minutes, and I can't decide if she looks crazy, or AWESOME:

Is it subtle? No. Is it restrained? No. Is it impossible to sit down in? Probably. Could this be one of the costumes from the grand finale of the Xanadu musical? (Warning: that link takes you to possibly the most mesmerizing Flash intro ever) We hope so. And yet, something about how over-the-top it is is also kind of FABULOUS. It's so....shiny. And futuristic. And weird. And ballsy. And probably really hot in the sun -- if you want to hug her, you probably have to wrap a beach towel around her waist to avoid being scalded, like how you sometimes need to use a dishrag to handle your steering wheel during a heat wave.

But this metallic extravaganza is nothing compared to what B wore to perform in:

Much in the way it smiles upon the work of ancient Greek and Roman craftsmen, I think history will look back at Blu Cantrell and revere her as an artisan of fug. Just when you think she can't elevate her game any higher, she straps on a rocket pack and shoots up into the fugtosphere.

Of course, the drawback of the rare place in history she's carved for herself is that our children's grandchildren might look back and think we all wore jeans that made us look like we were either pregnant, or that we bloated ourselves for sport. And I don't particularly want my memory any more tarnished than it already will be by the photos of me in stirrup pants in grade 9.

Still, it takes a special woman to wear something that renders the hideousness of that hat -- and the retina-peeling wrongness of that lipstick -- totally beside the point. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she left the house in a year wearing pants that button at the armpit (assuming her necklaces don't strangle her first), which would a) essentially bind her in a denim bodystocking, thereby contradicting the notion of freedom her shirt purports to advocate; and b) serve as the ultimate "FU" to her body and to the world.

Country singer Sarah Buxton is very cute:

For the most popular girl in school, circa 1986.

I wonder if she's going to regret leaving her Swatches at home, though.

I know, empirically, that I need to accept that this really is Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. But the more I stare at this photograph, the more it feels like these are just poseable wax replicas yanked from the Madame Tussaud's exhibit down by The Venetian and propped up on the red carpet. Because... well, first, I wouldn't be at all surprised if we learned in about ten years that Tim McGraw is actually a recluse who only leaves the house to perform live, leaving the rest of his public duties to a host of stuffed, animatronic, or plastic facsimiles. He always looks the same and holds himself the same way, like someone shoved a memory chip into the back of a Cowboy Ken doll, all beefcake on the outside but with none of the hidden sausage.

Faith Hill, though, just looks... off. She looks stiff and misshapen, kind of like the aforementioned bastard children of the waxworks museum that are near enough likenesses to look familiar, but far enough off to be completely creepy and inspires me to run away. That dress makes her boobs look malformed. And I'm pretty sure that Faith Hill is supposed to be hot, and not like the product of a novice pulling an all-nighter on the wax wheel (okay, so probably the Tussaud's people don't make things on wheels, but it's more fun to imagine that a Demi Moore type was staying up late to try and finish Faith Hill's torso and got distracted by the ghostly caress of her tragically deceased man-bitch, which I guess means one possible theory for Faith's misplaced lady lumps is that they got kicked around by some wicked coitus).

So in sum, I have no idea what I'm talking about, except that something is awry here with country music's favorite couple. But we'll know soon enough if my wax-replica theory is correct -- wearing what appears to be the family turtle around her neck will either result in Faith's head being slowly sawed off, or a rapid application of healing salve when the chafing on Flesh Faith's neck makes her crazy.

Usually, as Jessica mentioned already, we are all over Google when it comes to the Country Music Awards and the spangly, nameless figures who scamper along the red carpet in a blur of eye-shadow. But I had no need to look up Laura Bryna. I know exactly who she is.

Meet the founding officer and current treasurer of the Texas Hairdressers' Association Big-Time Family Fun Marching Band. She also leads the baton-twirling corps -- that is, when she's not needed to fill in on the piccolo.

Before I did my Magic Google Action on Tiffany Fallon here, I assumed that she was a lower tier country singer I hadn't heard of. In fact, it turns out she was Playboy's Playmate of the Year in 2005, and did some sort of Miss USA-type thing. So...I'm not entirely sure why she's at the Country Music Awards.* But she is, and equally perplexingly, she's dressed like Vanna White circa 1987. But nakeder:

I would say that women best known for being naked are maybe at more of a loss when presented with an event that requires clothing, but I suspect that Tiffany here maybe just really loves both Wheel of Fortune and Roman history, and therefore has gotten herself a dress that combines the two in one spectacular blinged-out, toga-fied mish-mash. This is a dress suitable both for a Roman orgy AND for patiently waiting for someone to buy a vowel already. It would appeal both to Pat Sajack AND the Roman Emperor. It allows the range of movement required to gesture gracefully at a sailboat (I miss the Wheel of Forture prize packages. Remember when the winners got to pick out, like, table lamps from a revolving turntable o' prizes? That was awesome) and to vigorously give a sub-par gladiator the big thumbs-down. In fact, I would venture to say that the versatility of this ensemble is probably being wasted at an awards show. I mean, I don't really watch the Academy of Country Music Whatevers (sorry, Host Reba McEntire. It's not your fault. I love you. I'll never forget the time I got drunk with some people and we ended up at the Kinko's on Wilshire because one of my drunk friends needed to photocopy something and Kinko's was closed, and as my friends stood and stared into the darkened Kinko's trying to figure out why the hell it was closed, since Kinko's are supposed to be open late, that being the whole point of Kinko's, I just sat down on the bus stop bench in front of the building and stared out into the street. And then a Porsche pulled up to the stoplight right in front of me and Reba McEntire was in the passenger seat and, because I was drunk, I stared at her and yelled at my friends, "It's Reba McEntire!" very subtly and she totally read my lips and then she smiled at me really big and gave me a huge wave. It was awesome.) but I imagine there are no gladiators or word games involved.

*Apparently, she's married to one of the dudes in Rascal Flats. Our readers know all kinds of things!

Jeanne Little is apparently a very-well-known Australian personality. (Today is the day that I make assumptions about Australian celebrities based on small blurbs I read on the internet, so mark your calendars.) The words I have encountered about her most, so far, have been "beloved" and "zany."

I can see that:

You sort of have to hand it to a woman who's so clearly stoked by her ability to fashion a ruff out of one of those sun guards you unfold and stick across your windshield.