MTV Movie Awards

"WHAT UP, MTV nation, I am BACK!"

"It's me! Lindsay! Star of Mean Girls and and Freaky Friday and... let's skip a few here... ah yes, those commercials for the MTV Movie Awards! And Ugly Betty! And now I'm working on something else!  It's this movie about... stuff! GOOD stuff! Stuff where I don't play a stripper who loses all her limbs, or anything! I think! Anyway, I'm back and I'm in cute shoes and my pupils aren't weirdly dilated and I need my roots done, because I'm REAL yo, and I totally DO NOT CARE that my mother and my sister are trying to get famous by talking about me all the time on their dumb show. I am NOT bothered by the fact that they have their own press appearances and paparazzi attention, and like, I SO AM NOT EVEN WORRIED about the fact that more people have talked about my sister watching grainy footage on the Internet that CLAIMED to be me having sex, than they have about my current career prospects! IT'S FINE. I don't need to resort to any dumb publicity stunts for people to talk about me, like having a reality show, or wearing really short skirts that might blow up if a gust of wind magically comes by at EXACTLY the right moment, or... ahem, i SAID, IF A GUST OF WIND MAGICALLY COMES BY AT EXACTLY THE RIGHT MOMENT... Dammit, Samantha, I gave you ONE JOB... oh, ah, here we go:

You know how it goes: It's a Monday, one weekend just ended and the next one is SO VERY FAR away, and I haven't had caffeine yet. Ergo, I have been staring and staring and staring at this photograph, wondering if there is ANY possible way that I have hallucinated it in my weakened condition.



I mean... tell me honestly: Did I sleep through an apocalypse? Did a new world order declare a pox on willowy blondes, forever dooming them to weird shirts that don't fit? And why do I feel like her boobs are secretly angry robot eyes? Is it judging me? Is it going to replicate? Will a plague of cruel silver corsets rain down on my house later today and make me wear them with gladiator sandals and leggings? Does the new villainous race of cyborgs that clearly just took over our planet REALLY want to dredge up memories of Aeon Flux?

Most importantly, will a Diet Coke make this all go away? I think I owe it to myself to try.

I just experienced Meagan Good's performance in Stomp the Yard on Saturday, so her fresh-faced good looks are, er, fresh in my mind.  Which why this feels particularly tragic:

She looks like a cocktail waitress (complete with pockets for your swizzle sticks) at a 50s-by-way-of-the-80s themed diner -- the kind with lots of neon accents --  and I think I might be able to maybe see her nipple.

At the MTV Movie Awards this weekend, we saw a few egregious changes that we would do well to investigate. To that end, let's play a fun game called BEFORE AND AFTER, the rules of which I would happily explain, except I think they're pretty obvious.

We'll begin with Heidi Montag of The Hills. My disdain for Heidi's douchey boyfriend Spencer has been well-illustrated, and you can imagine what a great idea I think their "engagement" is. But, hey, who DOESN'T have an ill-advised first marriage in her past? Just get it out of the way, Heidi. Then you can arrange for MTV to create a reality show called Getting Over Spencer Pratt, a Bachelorette meets Flava of Love type show in which other Hollywood scensters compete to be your next husband. It will be hilarious!

Anyhoodle, in case you don't watch as much of The Hills as I do, this is what Heidi used to look like:

And this is what she looks now, a year later:

New fiance, new nose, new boobs, new lingerie-inspired wardrobe. Now, while I get that the girl wants to show off her investment -- and her new breasts ARE sort of mesmerizing -- I am pretty sure that she's ACTUALLY wearing lingerie. Like, not lingerie-inspired. Lingerie-lingerie. Wow:  the more you type the word "lingerie," the weirder it looks.

Anyway, I just hate the idea that, in one short year, the kid went from being sort of fresh-faced and natural looking to...you know, wearing lingerie as a dress. I blame Spencer.

I also blame Spencer for Amanda Bynes's new look.  I doubt the two of them have actually met, but I am sure he is somehow to blame. Behold, the new Amanda:

You know we love us some Posh. We couldn't be happier that she walks among us in Los Angeles, because it significantly increases the odds that we can bump into her at somewhere kind of pretentious, like the Urth Cafe, and convince her to go shopping with us so that we might better understand how her mind works. Because right now, we're in the dark, and we suspect that borrowing Edward Furlong's Terminator 2 haircut and bleaching the hell out of it might have scrambled her brain.

We haven't deluded ourselves into thinking Posh's taste is always upscale. I mean, the woman's blood type is O-Tacky. But a plastic-looking zebra-print dress with a hot pink bra deliberately showing? Vicky, Vicky, Vicky, that is so Latter-Day Britney of you (although we appreciate the omission of fishnet tights that are slowly rotting around your thighs).

Are you trying to call out to Britney? Are you trying to imply that you have much in common, and yet still much to teach? Are you going to take her under your wing and help her grow an equally outdated short coif so that she stops with the cheap weaves? Because honestly, I could get behind that. If Angelina Jolie is still too busy figuring out how to adopt Lindsay Lohan, then I can't think of another celeb whom I'd rather see yank Britney up by her bootstraps and slap some sense -- or at least, some different crazy -- into her. Can you imagine? They'd eat at The Ivy (or, in Posh's case, just sit there and stir a salad), they'd shop, they'd go to David's L.A. Galaxy games wearing giant sunglasses and cut-up tank tops, and they'd write a book together called The Sister I Never Had, forgetting of course that they both have sisters.

But, Vicky, be careful: Please stop short of hooking Brit up with one of Becks' teammates. We don't need her naming her next batch of children things like Beverly Hills and Sunset Boulevard and Hamlet.

Oh, FAMKE.

You are so much prettier than this! Remember, on Nip/Tuck, when you were all pretending to be a life coach, swanning around in like really fabulous halter tops and slinky bathing suits and big big glamorous sunglasses and fantastic hats and great slim little suits, all the whilst seducing young boys, including one that was kind of your son, and also trying to conceal the fact that you were kind of a man?

We need more of that here, and less of whatever...this is. Because I can't stop staring at your midsection, and there is no outfit in the world where the message is "STARE AT MY MIDSECTION." Okay, unless we're talking about Britney Spears's wardrobe from 1999-2003.  Which we are not. And probably never will be again, unless it's to bemoan how she'll never fit into it again.

Wow, where am I? Oh, right: more clean classic sexy outfits as inspired by your role as a murderous, glam life coach whose sex change was mildly botched by Alec Baldwin, less weird flowing mid-section-y yadda yadda.

This week's random regurgitation of 1980s styles that didn't even look that good the first time:

Presumably, Ms. Beckinsale is even at the MTV Movie Awards in the first place because she is promoting this summer's Click, and not because she is being recognized for her work in Underworld: Evolution -- an assumption I can make based on the fact that it's difficult even in this town to throw a rock without hitting someone who says, "What? They made a sequel to that cinematic mushroom cloud?"

Unfortunately, Kate herself is not possessed of a remote control that will rewind time -- or even, say, a photo album of her, or anyone else's, youth -- or she certainly wouldn't have paid a nostalgic visit to Mammoth Beltville by way of the intersection of 21 Jumpsuit Street and Billowy Ankle-Pants Avenue. She is a good, solid backbrushing away from being the most popular girl in the senior class of 1987.

The Dangerous Allure of the Fedora, Part The Second:

Justin used to be so cute, in a harmless, loves-his-mama kind of way. But thanks to this crippling case of fedoritis -- and some possible residual effects of the Diaz taint -- he just looks kind of weird and dopey. It could have been different, J.T. It didn't have to go downhill. You could have, oh, I don't know, left the hat on the desk of the 1970s reporter from whom you stole it. Just a thought.

Donald Faison and Zach Braff approach the red carpet:

DONALD FAISON: Shit, dude.

ZACH BRAFF: Stay calm. Just. Stay. Calm.

DF: Dude! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO STAY CALM? We're at some awards show! I thought the driver was taking us to Autozone! I'm not even wearing pants!

ZB: There must have been some kind of miscommunication. Just....look like we meant to dress like this. It's MTV. We're....just....laid back! We're laid back.

DF: Have you even looked in a mirror? Do you know how you look right now? Are you and Mandy having a contest to see who can go the longest without showering, or something?

ZB: I know. I know, okay. I thought the driver was dropping us off at Easy Ed's Mini Putt and Mega-Arcade.  But we're here, and we have to act like we did this all on purpose.

DF: My girlfriend is gonna kill me when she sees these pictures. I probably shouldn't even go home tonight. Or ever.

ZB: Okay, we're almost to the photographers. Just...just look fierce, Donald! Just look fierce!

[Photo by Daily Celeb.]

If you stare at Jessica Biel long enough while she's actually walking around in this dress, something rather interesting happens.

First, you get a blinding migraine. But once your vision returns, still blurred from the agonizing pain, the motion and the colors of her dress start to mix and swirl and you will begin to get sleepy... very sleepy... Summer Catch was a phenomenal movie... very.... sleepy... Jessica Biel is an incredible, unforgettable talent ... So sleepy... Give the girl a retroactive Emmy for 7th Heaven... Can barely stay awake... She deserves a big movie role for lots of money...

Ow. My head hurts a little. Where was I? Oh, right: That Jessica Biel is a breath of fresh air, isn't she? Get that Marc Jacobs fellow, if he's available -- I spy a muse.