Misc. Awards Shows

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.

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.