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Let's not even pretend today isn't exciting. I have tickets for the 8:30 Harry Potter and I can't wait (well, I guess I can wait until 8:30). What better time than now to write about little Miss Emma "Hermione" Watson and how much she -- let's be honest -- kind of rocks:

"As the Potter phase of her life enters its coda, we give Watson full marks for achieving the tricky feat of surviving teen stardom by becoming a stylish woman we'd sooner expect to see on the cover of Harper's Bazaar than The National Enquirer."

This week's column is a bit of a love letter and that's okay. After all, positive reinforcement is a powerful tool. Read the rest of it here. And happy Harry Potter day! AT LAST, WARNER BROTHERS, GOD.
The couture shows were this week in Paris, and oh my god, is that stuff amazing. Also, some of it is totally insane. We took a look at all the glorious, CRAZY clothes for NY Mag:

"When you want something bad enough, there's nothing you won't consider trading for it: a limb, a motor vehicle, a generally disliked member of your extended family ... maybe even a generally nice member of your extended family. And nothing engenders that kind of self-destructive lust like haute couture."
Aren't you dying to know what could possibly tempt us to happily go without lunch for a month? You KNOW we love sandwiches. Check out the slideshow here and find out.
This week, over at NY Mag.com, Heather and I tackle the question of Megan Fox's Transformers press junket wardrobe. The verdict? Surprisingly mixed:

"She actually looks surprisingly chic: relaxed, confident, casual, and not at all like an actress who was once quoted as saying that she always forgets to flush the toilet."

But there are misses, too. OH ARE THERE MISSES. Head over to NY Mag.com to check out the full slideshow.
It's FINALLY here: the week you marked on your calendar months ago with a red Sharpie. (Or was that just us? ... Never mind.) Lauren Conrad's semi-autobiographical fiction novel, about a girl who finds herself on a hit reality show, arrived stores on Tuesday -- and because we are givers, we ran out and picked up a couple copies so that we could report back to all of you about whether it's dreadful, delicious, dull, or dishy. The answers, by the way, are: Not at all, not particularly, not as much as we thought, and not as much as it could be:

The gold standard, Nicole Richie's secretly awesome The Truth About Diamonds, refers to the Paris Hilton character as functionally retarded; compared to that, L.A. Candy is practically a love letter. [...] But the first 70 or so pages do include copious jabs at girls who move to L.A., bleach their hair, plump their lips, get boob jobs, and become generic, useless bimbos. Hello, Heidi!

Click here to check out our entire breakdown of the merits and demerits of L.A. Candy, as spoiler-free as possible (but not completely, so beware). Or at the very least, pop on over to take a peek at the author photo. It's so STERN.
We're so accustomed to Hollywood's resident idiots going buck-wild during the summer months -- I mean, remember when Paris went to prison and then read her poetry on Larry King? -- that we can't believe it's so quiet. But, seeing as we're only halfway through June, it COULD be the calm before the storm. We've got a couple young celebs on our meltdown watch list; see if you can guess about whom we wrote this:

He's become so beside the point these days that even bravely gaining about 300 pounds yielded him zero press. Where is his sensitive People cover on which he proclaims that he is proud of his curves? What more does this guy need to do to get attention -- have his own talk show? Wait, nevermind.

Give up? Or just want to know if you're right, and see who else made it on there? Click here to read the rest of the column and play in the comments.



In case our coverage today wasn't enough immersion in MTV for you, or you prefer your quips and snarkings in slideshow form, we awarded a dozen looks our own facetious fashion prizes from the evening -- some we like, most we didn't, and a mix of stuff we've fugged and stuff we haven't.

"It's beyond us why she's clad like she just finished packing brownies into the minivan for the Little League bake sale."

About whom did we say that? Well, naturally, I'm not going to tell you -- click here to view the slideshow and join in the comments.
Poor old Jessica Simpson -- she's had a rough time of it in the past few years, and writing this sentence for our column encapsulated it pretty starkly for us:

"If you'd told us [years ago] that in 2009 Jessica would be the Simpson crooning country songs at chili cook-offs while Ashlee tootled off to work on the new Melrose Place, we'd have smiled politely and wished you success in rebounding from your apparent alien abduction."
So not only are we rooting for Jessica's new rumored reality-TV venture to succeed -- or at least, you know, not die out or flop tragically -- but we don't even think it's such an awful idea for her. Why? The answers lie in the rest of the column.
Biel, Biel, Biel. In the June issue of Allure, Justin Timberlake's boring half came out and became yet ANOTHER celebrity to bemoan the crushing agony of being so very, very good-looking. We're sure Derek Zoolander would be astounded to hear Jessica Biel counts this as a negative, and yet, she insists that having divine DNA is wounding her career. Waaaah:

Any publicist worth the fee could have predicted the ensuing Internet firestorm from unsympathetic readers who are pretty sure that is not an actual tragic problem (sample comment: "Can I throw up now? Boo-freaking-hoo!"). Critics who bewail that Hollywood is out of touch with the heartland generally get dismissed as uptight buzzkills, but they have a point: More often than not, celebs' attempts at proving they're relatably "real" backfire massively because they don't actually know what reality is anymore.

To join us in entreating Biel and other sad delicate flowers to PLEASE GET A GRIP, click on over to read the rest of the column.
If you haven't seen it yet, we won't spoil it for you, but Top Model finished its twelfth cycle last night and per usual, we gabbed about it for New York magazine. Here is a pleasantly vague excerpt, edited for GFY to try and prevent our foreign and/or DVR-reliant readers from getting mad:

Jessica: [Contestant Name Redacted] also got to take a break from walking at the end to indulge in some interpretive dance.

Heather: You mean the high-fashion mud-wrestling? For a second there, I thought we were watching a really strange bachelor party.

Jessica: I feel like Nigel may have appreciated that development more than anyone else in the room.

Heather: There is a "long lens" joke here that I'm too much of a lady to make. But only barely.


Click here to see the rest of the piece if you are unafraid of spoilers, or you watched the show and want to join in the fray.
AT LAST. The current cycle of ANTM grinds to a halt once more in tonight's finale. As usual, Heather and I handicap the finalists for NY Mag.com

"Allison gets props for making it this far despite spending every episode peering out from behind a bleached-blonde weave (courtesy of Tyra's cracked-out makeover team) that makes Vince Neil's coif enviable and stylish by comparison. But the girl can't walk. Like, at all. It's a major achievement every time she successfully transports herself up to Tyra at the end of each episode to claim her photograph."

Pop over to NY Mag.com to weigh in on your favorites and see whom we've picked to take it all.

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