NYFug.com

As you may have heard, our charming and resourceful intern George recently broke up with his girlfriend, Sarah Larson. Sure, there were a few days when our cocktails were salted by his man tears, but Intern George is nothing if not resilient. We are confident that he will find yet another tallish, semi-anonymous brunette to squire within a matter of days. In fact, he's at the post office now -- he could come back with a girlfriend in half an hour. As for Sarah? We're sure she's going to be fine. In fact, we figured it out very scientifically:

"Win or lose the Cloons, Larson was still guaranteed to come out ahead. To illustrate this, we'll employ a little system we call the Al Reynolds Scale of Social-Ladder Climbing. Assuming a value of zero represents Larson's notoriety prior to hooking up with Himself -- back when she was just a wannabe catwalk queen slinging vodka tonics in the modeling capital of the world, Las Vegas -- let's see where she ranks now that she's gone through the George Clooney tunnel of love and popped out the other side."

Please, feel free to check our math at NY Mag.com.

Yes, we DID go see Sex and the City before lunch today. Don't judge. We had to know what happened to Stanford! Also, we had to chat about it for New York magazine:

JESSICA: Speaking of old men, did Noth have something done? He looked different to me.
HEATHER: He looked freakishly well rested. Like he'd just woken up from the world's longest, most rejuvenating nap.
JESSICA: I prefer my Mr. Big to be more facially rumpled.

WARNING: There are spoilers in this column, so if you haven't seen the flick yet and you want to go in clean, save it until later or only read the first half. DOUBLE WARNING: This movie is going to make you want to buy shoes. TRIPLE WARNING: Clicking on this link will take you the rest of the column.

So, as you can imagine, we were STOKED about the new 90210. What's not to love? But judging from the recently released promo for the spin-off/sequel/update/remix/whatever we're calling it, it's going to be more of a case of, what's not to love to hate? First off, the clothes are terrible, albeit in a potentially hilarious way. For another, it already feels deeply boring:

"Not even Tristan Wilds, a.k.a. Michael from The Wire, can explain why his character is interesting except for "the way he adapts to Beverly Hills." (Couldn't he have tossed off something like, "Oh, just the way he sold a baby for a Dior phone"?) On 90210: Days of Yore, Emily Valentine slipped drugs into Brandon's drink, then poured gasoline on a parade float and threatened arson when he dumped her. You want this to be appointment television? Give us the sense there's something comparable up these people's designer sleeves."

Join us in predicting what we're going to hate about the show after a mere 120 seconds of exposure to it over at NY Mag.com!

PS: Just so we're clear -- we're obviously going to watch it. You know that, right? We haven't suffered identical head injuries or anything.

Well, ANTM X is officially in the books, and although there was nary an endearing/terrifying/jaw-dropping nutter like C6's Jade in the bunch -- tranny-lite Dominique came closest, but get back to us when she's writing beat poetry in the confessional -- the cycle yielded three fairly well-matched finalists who actually TALKED to each other instead of sitting around eating breakfast in sullen silence. Over at New York's site, we debated the merits of the big finale.

Jessica: I especially enjoyed the moment when Miss J was like, "OF COURSE WHITNEY HAS ISSUES! SHE SO FAT!" And Tyra had to step in and be like, "She is only MODEL FAT. Not REALLY fat."

Heather: Now that's a PSA in the making.

Jessica: I do think I've learned a valuable lesson. I'm not sure what it is, but I know it's valuable.

In a show of love for our overseas readers, we won't say who won, because we're feeling charitable today. But if you want to catch the rest of our impressions of the victor, her two bounced competitors, and the overall episode, click on over to read the full column.

We KNOW you're prepping for tonight's Top Model finale the usual way: plucking your brows, practicing your fiercest walk and preparing your signature eggplant dip, Banksa ghanoush. Care to make it....interesting? Yeah, that's right. Are you, like Kenny Rogers, a Gambler? Because we're laying odds at NY Mag.com:

"You know Tyra has been itching to anoint a girl with curves, and frankly, we're similarly rooting for Whitney to pull the upset — if for no other reason than to imagine the outrage from beanpole advocates like ex-judge Janice Dickinson. After all, if the show can’t produce an actual top model, the least it can do is stir up a little tabloid drama."

On the other hand, do we really think she'll win? Not entirely. See how the handicapping shakes out at NY Mag.com. (But BE WARNED: The comments to this post already contain alleged spoilers, so don't scroll down to read them if you want to go in fresh and clean!)

Face it: An event isn't really an event unless someone is handing out awards. So you're welcome, Met Ball. You're welcome. Sure, the awards we're handing out this week on NY Mag.com are totally facetious, but aren't those the most fun? For example:

"Best Befuddlement: If life were The Hills, Maggie Gyllenhaal's dress would be the Justin Bobby to our Audrina: Even though it felt wrong, we kept going back for more."

Read more -- including who is in the Least Alluring Rut, who presented the Best Application for AARP Membership, and  who put her Worst Face Forward -- over in the cozy, loving confines of NY Mag.com.

So, despite our fears that we're prematurely crotchety, it turns out we're not changing our byline to "The Fug Crones" just yet. (Emphasis on YET.) While everyone else in the world seems to be freaking out about spying Miley Cyrus's bared back on the cover of Vanity Fair, we're left scratching our heads and yawning and wishing everyone would just relax, already. For one thing, this is totally a teen-dream rite of passage --I mean, Britney wrote a whole SONG about being not a girl, not yet a woman, AND wore her panties on Rolling Stone -- but for another, compared with what's come before Miley, is this picture really so scandalous?

A simple backless portrait taken in the presence of her parents or minders by a respected female photographer -- without a single nip slip or sultry licked lip in sight -- is practically a Puritanical achievement [by Young Hollywood standards]. Plus, Miley herself isn't pregnant, smoking crack, tattooing the name of an unwashed rock-star boyfriend on her boob, or licking bananas at a lad-mag-sponsored shindig. The public freak-out just doesn't fit the crime.

If you want to read our full defense of Miley, then browse on over to the full article: "Calm Down, Everyone: Miley's Just Following The Script."

 

And we're back! Hope you all had an awesome week, full of smiting your enemies, unexpected gifts, and brownies.  We're slowly getting back up to speed -- honestly, for all we know,  Britney might have run off with Vladimir Putin in our absence, though we  imagine someone would have texted us -- but you can catch up with our latest NY Mag.com piece, in which we once more look to the "fashion" of The Hills:

" Say what you will about Lauren Conrad's collection — we called it tragique — but at least she studies fashion; when Heidi attended FIT (tellingly, for a day, before quitting), it was to learn about PR, making Heidiwood the equivalent of having once typed up a recipe and auditioning for Top Chef. Naturally, we had to investigate — the kind of up-close and terrifying recon that can only come from trying Heidi’s wares on our brave, implant-free selves."

Learn exactly how bad it was here.  You guys, we're talking one-inch inseams. FOR REAL.

Admit it: you REALLY want to check out the newly-updated versions of the Sweet Valley High books. We hear you. Which is why we ran out as soon as they were released and gobbled them up like fries at the Dairi Burger (now called "Casa del Sol," like, whatever. It's always the Dairi Burger to US), and reported back for NY Mag. Turns out all the terrible, terrible 80s clothes have gone the way of 1BRUCE1, which is to say: into ancient history. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Seriously, we really miss 1BRUCE1). Also:

"Back in the day, falsely accused student-romancer Ms. Dalton "never looked prettier" than when chaperoning a dance in her long velvet skirt, an old-fashioned blouse with "lots of ruffles and tucks," and a fake rose pinned over one ear. To avoid modern-day confusion that she is either Amish or a refugee from Anne of Green Gables, she now wears an eggplant sheath. What, no leggings?"

Find out which other iconic SVH wardrobe choices have been left in the dust, along with those five pounds they shaved off the twins,  at NY Mag.com.

Essentially, while we truly do love Lady Bobbington and her reign of terror at Vogue, we sort of hate the annual "Shape" issue. It's so phony:

"Despite presumably good intentions, the shape issue feels more like Vogue trying to bum a ride on a politically correct bandwagon, and our girl A-Dubs is a particularly lousy hitchhiker. Her editor’s letter boldly blames designers for using scrawny models to present “a non-vivacious, homogenous ideal,” then steps all over that, in its attempt to homogenize zaftig designers Kate and Laura Mulleavy of Rodarte by offering them a free four-month diet and exercise plan."

Oh, Anna. If you're coming for the designers now, are the bloggers NEXT? YOU WILL TEAR THE POTATO CHIPS FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS! More of the same here.