Misc. Awards Shows

The Logies are, as far as I can tell, the Australian version of the Emmys, with a heavy splash of The People's Choice Awards, as it seems that many of the awards are fan-voted. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) All I know is, I would like to vote for Allison Cratchley (who, it seems, appears on All Saints -- the Aussie soap, not the girl group -- as  Dr Zoe  Gallagher) in the category of Most Egregious Misappropriation of Art:

Though if you think this is bad, you should see her Mona Lisa culottes.

When I was little, I loved Sarah Brightman. Loved her. Primarily because I was a musical-theater nerd who didn't really care about the actual quality of the musical (hence: saw Cats three times), and I saw Sarah as the original Christine in Phantom of the Opera, which then-hubby Andrew Lloyd-Webber wrote just for her, and I loved it because she was so pretty with her hair and the costumes and the yearning and all that. Plus, in England they often (or at least used to) release songs from hit musicals onto the pop charts. So in addition to being on the West End, Sarah was also all over my very favorite show EVER, Top Of The Pops (rest in peace, little buddy), and I was constantly presented with opportunities to watch the video of the musical's title song, in which a masked man boats a beautifully dressed Sarah across a dry-ice river while they sing about how the Phantom of the Opera invades your mind. It was all very romantic. Never mind that the boater was a man in a mask that was a) strangely not the same mask they use in the musical, but some sort of red and gold full-face version that would be more at home in my nightmares, and b) said masked man was psychotic and wanted to lock her up in a basement. Although when you're 9, there's also something very romantic about being locked in a dungeon while you happen to look gorgeous and can make a man weep with your perfect voice, while the rest of the world ceases to turn on its axis until you are found. Hot.

Ahem. Anyway. There are still things I love about Sarah Brightman. Like, I'm pretty sure she's had some good plastic surgery over the years, and she divorced AL-W after getting what she needed out of him, which is good because otherwise she might have been associated with things like Sunset Boulevard.

But what I find most charming about her is her modesty and sense of occasion.

Katherine Jenkins is some sort of opera singer. I say "some sort," because I'm unsure what opera contains an Italian version of Bryan Adams' "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You," and yet the clumsy strains of that rendition greeted me when I Googled her and got to her Web site. Although I will say this: The song being in a foreign language does a lot for it, because it distracts from how idiotic the lyrics are. If only somebody would translate "Have You Ever Really, Really Really SERIOUSLY Really For Reals Totally Really Really Loved A Woman" into Italian, maybe it would no longer make me want to go on a killing spree.

However, none of the above has distracted me from Katherine Jenkins' jumpsuit. Or pantsuit. I go back and forth. One piece, two pieces... it doesn't matter; it's fugly whichever way you stitch it.

This is really violating Bryan's glorious, sacred message of loyalty. It "Cuts Like A Knife," if you will. Clearly, (everything she does) she is NOT doing for me, or you, or anyone else; were that honestly the case, she would return this thing to Chico's Cache of Cocktail Pajamas -- assuming she didn't outright steal them from Joan Collins' trunk marked, "Dynasty: 1982: Clothes For Romancing Dex Dexter" -- and put herself in something slightly more flattering.

Then perhaps she can trill her way back into our hearts with a spectacular aria interpretation of B.Ad's "Please Forgive Me." I'm not saying this shameless attempt to curry favor would work, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it to spark a magical mystery tour through his discography that goes straight through an operatic "(I Wanna Be) Your Underwear" and lands squarely at a touching foreign-language "Summer of '69." I hope she refuses to rest until she's reimagined every last one of hits -- especially the ones off that 1991 album that has no fewer than 9 songs with titles of six words or more.

He is a delight. I don't know how this became about him, but apparently all roads lead to Bryan Adams, master of the parenthetical and court jester of the written word. Bless him.

Okay, so this is the part where I admit that the line between reality and fantasy is occasionally very thin for me.  Like yesterday, for example, I heard something about Kristin Cavallari filming some kind of reality show about her journey though Lasik surgery. But I had to think about that for like twenty minutes this morning, because I convinced myself that I MUST have dreamed it. I mean, that idea is both boring and surreal, much like many of my dreams. But apparently, it's true. Which makes me relieved in the sense that my subconscious is not, thank God, making up stuff about the medical history of Laguna Beach stars, but at the same time, the fact that this is actually true is very disturbing. I mean, what's next? Am I going to have to sit through webisodes about, like, Carmen Electra's teeth cleaning? Or tag along on Mandy Moore's trip to the podiatrist? Because while I love some celebrity news and gossip, I can barely work up a head of steam about my OWN doctor's appointments, much less anyone else's.

At any rate, I don't think she's had the Lasik yet, because look:

I mean, she's cute blah blah blah blah but come on, how boring is this? You could seriously wear this down to the mall for an afternoon of Iced Blendeds and shoe shopping. This a televised program she's attending (right? I presume the Australian Video Music Awards are televised, you know, in Australia). Mix it up a BIT, Kristin. Also, watch out with that top: I myself have the urge to walk up behind you and tug on the straps of your shirt until they garrote you and while my garrotage would be a fun, faux garroting, I imagine there are some bitches in Hollywood who would actually happily choke you out. Don't lend them a hand.

Aussie actress/singer Natalie Bassingthwaighte (which, PS: how much do I love that name? There are so many consonants in it. It's fantastic) proves to us all that What Works on the runway is often hard to pull off in Real(ish) Life, even if you are in totally great shape:

When I first saw photos of this particular outfit in [Insert Glossy Fashion Mag Here], I assumed that it would be made available in longer lengths, as well -- which I think would actually be quite fabulous -- and as far as I know, it may well be (clearly, I need to zip over to Prada to research that point. Also, to try on turbans. And then cry, because I can not buy a Prada turban unless I plan to LIVE IN IT. Also because I would look insane in a turban.).  Because what is stellar on a model whose legs are longer than my entire body tends looks REALLY REALLY SHORT when someone who is not a model wearing it out and about. And then that person just sort of looks out of proportion and awkward. I do enjoy the expressions on the faces of the people in the background. The ones who are looking at The Consonanted One seem to be thinking, "Wow. How is sister sitting down in that thing?" And, indeed, so am I. It reminds me of that AbFab episode where Patsy announces that she has the power to raise hemlines so high that "the whole world is your gynecologist."  Apparently, she's finally done it.

If IMDb is to be believed, Jullye Giliberti has appeared in several telenovelas, all of which seemed to have involved priests, secret weddings, coincidental liasions with relatives of former lovers, and -- I hope -- people getting slapped. Which is why I really wish I'd taken Spanish in high school instead of French. If the school had told me that Spanish would have increased the number of soaps I could watch, I totally would have signed up. 

At any rate, it seems that no one told Jullye that there IS such a thing as Being Too Coordinated:

That is a LOT of aqua.  Unless she's attending A Salute To Miami Vice (an event I would completely support, by the way) we've got a problem.

I have a pet theory about Carrie Underwood and Kellie Pickler. For whatever reason, I feel like whenever they run into each other on the red carpet, Kellie is like a puppy dog who's just thrilled to try to hump Carrie's leg, while Carrie will simply have none of it. In fact, I imagine that Carrie just slides past Kellie without a word, merely turning up her nose and looking away. This is based not at all in any fact -- though I have heard the Underwood is kind of a pain -- but mostly on Underwood's general demeanor, which seems prim and a bit self-impressed.  That being said, she's certainly dressed for the part on the CMT red carpet:

She looks very pretty and sweetly conservative -- if much, much tinier than she used to be -- in a way that works with her sort of Reese Witherspoon-y, debutante-y looks. She also looks like a supporting character in a romcom in which the lead is sort of this klutzy (but charming!) girl who is marrying into a conservative, very monied Southern family, who of course are all taken aback by Klutzy But Charming's inability to blend in at Junior League functions (with the exception, I imagine, of the genial grandfather character, who realizes that a shot of moxie is exactly what his family needs!). Carrie, of course, would be playing the disapproving, uptight -- but beautiful -- sister of the male lead. And after a lot of raised eyebrows over the punch bowl, naturally, she would come to embrace Klutzy But Charming, so we can all have our happy ending. So I can see why she wouldn't want to have much to do with The Pickler, who seems like she might have sticky hands.

However, THIS version of Carrie Underwood has no right to judge:

Because I am a nerd, I secretly enjoy it when someone's last name is also a word in its own right. Like if your name were Fred Microwave. Something about that would please me. Or  Charlene Coffeecup. That would be good. Because it's a last name....and a noun. Fun with phonics! Or Kellie Pickler. Now, I'm not sure what a pickler is, exactly, but I'm sure it's a word that gets tossed around the Vlasic factory with abandon, like, "Marge, get your hand outta that pickler! It'll take it clean off!" or "I don't know, Eleanor. There's something about that new pickler. He's so handsome." Or even, "Kellie sure ran herself through the pickler with that outfit." Because she certainly is in a pickle:

Lady Pickler (ooh, that sounds sort of painful) needs to get herself a new hairdresser, pronto, because she looks like she styled her hair with a mixmaster (a compliment my father used to pay me every Sunday morning when I wandered down to breakfast. Yes, I have really bad bed head. I DO generally comb it before I leave the house, though, KELLIE).  Combined with her pickle-y hued dress -- which seems to go from being Ruched On Purpose to Wrinkled On Accident -- and (I'm sorry, kid, I have to go there) her new boobs, which haven't entirely settled in yet, it seems,  the girl really is in a bit of a  jam.

Or, technically, I guess, a relish.

(Yes, it's Pun Day here at GFY HQ. We have to make our own fun.)

"YEE-HAW! I mean, hello. I'm Paula Abdul.

"I am late for my shift at Hogs and Heifers but you know what? I just have to tell you something. This awards show...has really....you've really....you touch me, Nickelodeon Awards Show thingie. I'm....touched. By your spirit. Your spirit is like the scent of uniforms -- I mean, unicorns -- unicorns. I like unicorns. They're shiny. Like my boots.  And my belt buckle. And my labels. Lapels. Labpels. La la la la LAPEL! I'm sorry, that was totally pitchy, wasn't it? What would Simon say? SIMON SAYS! I like that game. It sounds like rainbows, and rainbows taste like cookies. I know you're wondering why I have a leash attached to my belt and the way you asked me about it really moved me. I am moved by it. I'm not allowed to tell you the answer because the goblins will eat   my pants if I do. So SHHHH, don't ask. But just keep being a shining star in the sky of this orange carpet and know that your soul is the pants on the mannequin of the world, okay? Now I really have to go. If I'm more than 15 minutes late they make me work the back room and the guys in there are so handsy."

I certainly  fervently hope Nelly Furtado is performing some kind of Vegasified version of her hit "I'm Like A Bird" here:

What with all the flying away. And, you know, all the feathers. Though maybe she's just rewritten "Promiscuous" to be about sexy, sexy wildlife.