Misc. Awards Shows

Sheryl. Sheryl, Sheryl, Sheryl. SHERYL. You are debunking your own lyrical statement that if it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. Because I think this IS that bad.

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If you thought we'd be too consumed with the Oscars to notice that your petticoat is showing underneath that skirt that looks like an ancient world map drawn by someone who thought we floated in an ocean of blood -- or that you are wearing a bright white bra as a shirt -- then you were sorely mistaken. WE SEE ALL. Thanks, in part, to you wearing a transparent sweater. It's kind of like playing Hide and Seek by standing behind a lamp. Remind me never to tell you a secret, because it seems you're not great at keeping things under wraps.
OKAY, KATY PERRY:

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We're ALL LOOKING AT YOU. Are you FINALLY HAPPY? If we all agree that you deserve as much attention as it is possible for the planet to give, will you cease and desist molesting poor innocent Hello Kitty and LEAVE US ALL ALONE FOR FIVE MINUTES? Thank you.

PS: Also, please stop dressing like a banana. It's ruining breakfast and that's nearly all I've got left.
I do so love a redhead in blue; I'm just not sure I love THIS redhead in THIS blue.

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Not that there's anything wrong with the shade. In fact, it's rather fetching, but for the strange spot near Amy's left armpit. (And the hem, too, I see. Did someone attack her with a fiendish eyedropper?) My beef with the dress is how it manages to be both boring and a bit haphazard at the same time -- almost as if she woke up one day and barked at her stylist, "I love this shirt. Make it into a cocktail dress, please. The tighter the better." So the stylist ran out and sewed a skirt onto it, and Amy smiled and wore it to do the cleaning with all her roach friends from Enchanted, then shoved it back into her closet until the BAFTAs rolled around, at which point she grabbed it and said, "I love this dress. Make it floor-length. With a FISHTAIL. SO FRESH." And voila.

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"HELLO BITCHES! I know. I know. You don't need to say it. I LOOK AWESOME. And WHY? Why do I look so awesome? BECAUSE I AM AWESOME, THAT'S WHY. I was dancing around my hotel room today to the Christian Bale Temper Tantrum Dance Remix -- that kid is so misunderstood, I need to remember to fax him a little poem I wrote about him -- and thinking to myself, 'Sharon, enough with the frocks made from the shredded loins of wee rodents and the bralessness and the terrible eye-makeup that makes me look like I was assaulted by the new boy working the Benefit counter and the wearable/edible pintas and the hat made of corn chips. In this time of massive economic suckery, the world doesn't need Sharon Stone 2.0: The Courtney Love Years. It needs Sharon Stone 1.0: The Sharon Stone Years.' And so I'm BACK, bitches. BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER. Lock up your menfolk and hide the scotch, because I am here to stay! PS: I wasn't sure about the hose with this, and then I was like, WHO CARES? I'm Sharon f'ing Stone."
It's a miracle, you guys:

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Kylie Minogue, who could probably fit into most people's coat pockets, looks almost TALL. I love the dress on her, think the hair is a huge improvement over her bleached-blonde locks of yore, and want the shoes so badly that I am tempted to offer her some kind of trade. Like, my house. Maybe we could do a temporary swap: She can move in next time she's in Los Angeles for however long she needs it, and I will live in my car and wear those shoes all over town and warm myself with the sun's rays glinting off their sparkly gloriousness. Sounds fair to me.

Separately... is it just me, or is this pretty much what Madonna thinks she looks like now?

I just discovered two whole cans of Diet Coke in the back of my fridge, and when you think you're all out of that sweet, sweet elixir, making that kind of discovery is the equivalent of stumbling over a pair of Loubs you never knew you owned, hidden underneath a pile of dirty socks. I might have squealed with glee. So I must say that I am feeling charitable right now. However, even were I in my most cranky of moods, I would have to hand it to Tomei/Pinto (which sounds like a new, up-and-coming ad agency). Check it:

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(If you click on them, you can see them bigger. Technology!)

As Liz Lemon would say, "I want to go to there." And by "there," I mean, "their closets, where I plan to steal these dresses, their shoes and bags, Tomei's necklace, and Freida Pinto's hair, although how I plan to pull that part of it off, I haven't quite figured out." Is it wrong that I am getting sort of excited about the Oscars? Because if it is -- wait for it -- I don't want to be right.
I think I need a ruling on Amy Adams here. We need to take this play under review, as it were.  If I may stretch this metaphor: As a Fug coach, I am challenging this call (which reminds me: congrats to all members of the Steelers nation -- that was one heck of a game!), and you are the review team.

Here's the front:

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Eh. It probably is one of those that look better in person, right?  Sure, we'll give her that. It's possible. These things have happened before. There's no definitive proof that it DIDN'T look better in person, ergo, it's still too close to call. Let's see it from another angle:

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WHAT HAVE WE HERE? That's interesting! Or, depending on your taste, weird. Or possibly interestingly weird, or weirdly interesting. Me? I'm just the coach. But I think I like the back, but wish the whole thing was another color. Something less reminiscent of incredibly shiny oatmeal. But what do I know?

So, when I was a young girl, I had a subscription to Seventeen and also, of course, to Sassy. Can I just take a minute and reflect on how much I loved Sassy? I wish I'd kept all my issues of it, but obviously I was not to know that fifteen years later I would think to myself, "I really wish I still had that issue of Sassy where they mentioned that hitting yourself in the mouth with a brick is not a good substitute for collagen injections, or the one where Evan Dando gives his recipe for tacos, or the one where Tori Spelling gives the writer a tour of her condo and the writer is like clearly really kind of unimpressed by how dumb Tori is, but then grudgingly admits she seems kind of nice."  But this is not about Sassy. It is about how when I was, say, fifteen -- which seems to be the ideal age to READ Seventeen, at least then -- one of the spring issues of Seventeen would be devoted entirely to the prom, and it would come complete with like SERIOUSLY FIFTEEN PAGES of an ad buy from some large-scale purveyor of prom dresses. This was stuck in the middle of the magazine almost like a little catalog. It was AWESOME, in part because many of the dresses were CRAZY. They were all very shiny, for one thing -- often overlaid with black lace -- and there was ALWAYS at least two that came with a hoop skirt. And I am pretty sure that probably long-dead Promatorium provided Virginia Madsen's dress here:

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If only she had a matching parasol, then I would be POSITIVE.
I loooove this color. I feel like it's very difficult for anyone except perhaps an actual Smurf to go wrong in this color:

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But that shouldn't take away from how well Evan Rachel Wood is rocking it, with her glowing skin and subtle -- by her standards -- makeup. The purple accessories have me torn; on the one hand, I applaud the unusual choice, but on the other, they are kind of distracting. In all, though, it's totally understandably why Mickey Rourke allegedly was spied making out with Evan Rachel after the SAG Awards. Which is not to say that I understand why Evan Rachel allegedly sucked face with Mickey Rourke -- rather, if I were Mickey, and I were coming off a wildly successful, acclaimed, decorated movie role, and I were standing next to this girl just a few weeks after memorably thanking my dogs for their companionship over the years, I'd probably be like, "Okay, Self. You may not look like Original Mickey Rourke any more, but you do not wear white contacts and you generally don't evoke images of Satan worship, so you are LIGHT YEARS ahead of this kid's last boyfriend. GO FOR IT."

All of which makes me feel a bit bad for Bai Ling, if indeed it's true she hooked up with Mickey Rourke after the Golden Globes. We rib our girl Bai, but we just want her to be happy; however, can it be a coincidence that after her rumored Rourkeing, she turned up not once but TWICE in full-coverage outfits? Behold:

Someone sent us this picture earlier in the week, and I honest to God thought it has been photoshopped. But it hasn't: I got it direct from our (unimpeachable) photo source:

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PUT ON SOME CLOTHES, DUDE. I've got robes that provide more full-body coverage. I shudder to think what would have happened had there been some kind of gusty wind kicked up. Wait, what's that you're saying? You want to see if you're seeing what you think you're seeing? You are. You don't believe me? Click through (technically safe for work, but maybe not if your boss is like RIGHT BEHIND YOU):

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