Oscars

It's not so much that I think Rachel Griffiths looks especially pregnant; rather, I just don't know many people who caress their abdominal region unless they're invested in the contents of their uterus. Perhaps she's merely regretting ordering the risotto. Or maybe she ate too many tiny egg-salad sandwiches at the funeral she just attended for the demise of the far better, more flattering outfit she had planned to wear until her cranky child put it in the microwave. Indigestion is rough. Maybe the good people at Tums should start co-sponsoring these parties -- after all, "Tums" backwards is "Smut," and that's kind of appropriate, don't you think?

Our love-hate relationship with Cate Blanchett's fashion sense is rather well documented in the GFY archives, so we're always excited to see what she's going to wear on the red carpet -- adore it or abhor it, we're never indifferent, and that's at least one victory right there.

This year, "love" won. And so I present a series of affectionate haiku-style poems dedicated to her achievement.

Cate loves metallics
like I love potato chips.
But, can't wear those. Boo.

Sexy iron sheath
makes Camelot wish chain mail
could look this gorgeous.

She's a tall, frosty
steel-wool milkshake, minus the
wool. Plus chocolate.

Fair skin is in, yay!
Ditch the bronzer, orange freaks.
Cate proves paleness rocks.

Out of Diet Coke.
Sad. Tortured. Crushed. Off-topic.
Cate: Bring me one? Please?

Guess it's errand time
For Intern George. Cans, please, love!
Plus, I should post this.

I know Jenna Jameson is a famed porn star, and therefore we shouldn't anticipate that she would abide by the standards of normalcy applied to much of the rest of the sentient world. But, something's gone awry there. Consider Ms. Jameson at the Big in '06 awards late last year:

Boobalicious, and certainly not all-natural by any stretch of the imagination, but she's still a pretty girl and you can see why she's had such a long and, er, active career.

So we were rather alarmed to see the condition of her face at an Oscar afterparty this past Sunday night.

Oh, what a journey it's been for Jennifer Hudson.  I'm not talking about her journey from American Idol to the Oscars or whatever. I'm talking about the journey through fug that she took on the night of the Academy Awards.

See, according to Page Six, her stylist Jessica Paster "got her a beautiful gold Roberto Cavalli custom-made," but Vogue's Andre Leon Talley, who's been helping style her as well, allegedly had a fit when he heard about the Cavalli and made her wear his choice.  This:

Because a girl totally wants to look like she's wearing something that might have been spotted in the background of the Thriller video on the biggest night of her life.  She also totally wants to have the hem of her shorty bolero hit her at the widest spot of her chest, making her look way bigger than she actually is. Oh, also? If she could find a color that totally makes her look washed out and boring? That'd be great.  What's up with ALT?  Did Anna Wintour crack him over the head with a thigh-high boot during a confrontation at the office, thereby knocking the chic out of his head? Did spending a lot of time with Jennifer Hudson lead him to secretly, passionately hate her, thereby leading to this act of sabotage? Does he really just love lame?

But J Hud -- good for her -- managed to pull it together over the course of the evening, working it first in the red dress she performed in, and then changing into what I assume is the Cavalli for both the press room and the after-parties:

Meryl Steep is, as we have said again and again in this space, awesome in so many ways. She is, of course, a great actress. She seems like she would be fun to socialize with. We still want her to adopt Lindsay Lohan, but she should feel free to add Britney Spears to that list, if she likes. But, girl, what is the deal with this?

She's giving us her blessings, which means a lot  as she is apparently some sort of high priestess or shaman-type-person judging from the holy vestments she's working. 

It's not so much the outfit we have a problem with; given Rose McGowan's history, we're just lucky we aren't being treated to a full moon, so to speak. No, our issue here is, sadly, with Rose's face. Why is she styling herself in the image of the older, squintier, and frequently less moisturized Teri Hatcher? It's alarming. It doesn't even look like Rose. Maybe this is where we find out that years ago, back when she was manning his flesh puppet, she sold her blood to Marilyn Manson for use in a devil-summoning ceremony, and her payback is premature Hatchulation. Let that be a lesson to you, kids: Don't give Marilyn Manson any of your bodily fluids. Are you listening, Evan Rachel Wood?

Though I am loathe to start rumors, and don't want to be one of those people who is all, "THAT TOP IS TOTALLY BLOUSE-Y! SHE MUST BE KNOCKED UP!", would you not agree that Katie Holmes appears to be conversing with a currently fetus-sized, bodily-contained  little Cruiselette here?

"Don't worry," she seems to be saying, "soon we'll be inside, where there are shrimps on skewers." I don't really think she's pregnant again, but there's something about all the layers on this number -- which I was neutral on until I spent some hard time with it, back when I was trying to figure out it she was bump-ified, but which I've since decided that I actually rather like, despite the fact that it somewhat resembles fantastically glamorous window treatments in the bedroom of a spectacularly pampered, quite beautiful, but generally aggravating baroness -- that implies she's got something uterine going on.

It's less apparent in some of the other photos, like this one:

Oh, Lauren Hutton. Even when you try not to be nuttier than a pecan pie, you still can't help yourself.

Even though your skirt looks like an enormous cartoon fish vomiting up its own membranes, we appreciate that you deviated from the Shaman of Ojai vibe you projected in 2006 -- which you shouldn't have loaned to Meryl Streep, but let's not digress. The effort at dressing up did not go unnoticed; it's just a shame you dumped ketchup all over your front and had to cover it with a ladies' seafoam stretch tee from Talbot's.

The whole experience must have been incredibly traumatic. If we'd been through it, we surely wouldn't have brushed our hair, either.

"Hi! Listen, we haven't talked in a while -- not since that whole "Scientology rocks!" thing, really, huh? I guess you didn't find that so amusing. Which is fine, although I should point out that nothing brings back your sense of humor like a nice, thorough auditing. It's fun! It's like a colonic for your SOUL. Anyway, I know you guys have been wondering a lot of things, like why John's hair looked like he glued Dick Clark's scalp to his own, or why John was allowed to participate in Wild Hogs on my watch. Seriously, though, do you think I could've stopped it? Johnny is so light-hearted and free -- nothing would keep him from a freeing nude romp in the wilderness. He once told me he likes to live every day like he's in A Room With A View, and who am I to stop that? But, if you must know, I totally wasn't even around. See, on a Church mission, I was dispatched to live a fun double-life as the arm-candy to a New Jersey drug mogul who's been squiring me around the mall social scene, with occasional side trips to his giant Miami-based yacht, "The Tom Cruiser." I suggested the name; can you tell? Anyhoo, were having a gay old time -- I was telling Mr. Yacht all about L. Ron and soul colonics -- and then, poof! Suddenly I remembered I was supposed to go with John to the Oscars. I didn't even have time to change out of my animal print. I just hopped a plane and met him on the red rug. So, you see, I wasn't really around to stop him from his biker mid-life crisis fantasy flick, but with Norbit sucking all the joy out of Eddie Murphy's life, I don't think anyone even noticed Wild Hogs, and anyway, it's William H. Macy who looks the most desperate to pay his tithes -- er, I mean, his rent. But I'm back in town now and I promise I'll do what I can to make sure John doesn't publicly straddle anything for a while. Deal? Deal! Now, does anyone have some AquaNet? My hair's not NEARLY big enough."

Let it never be said that we are unable to change our tune if the song we've been singing goes off key. In this case, the old saw "Maggie Gyllenhaal, What The Hell Are You Wearing?" has suddenly gone totally off the rails:

That is awesome, and I love it.  All her everything is in the right place and she looks appropriately formal without looking predictable or prom-y. The navy and the black are chic, but she still -- refreshingly -- looks sort of  unusual without giving the impression that she picked up her outfit at the Hipster One-Stop Irony-In-Dressing Shoppe.  Also, Peter Saarsgaaaaaaaarrrddd is rocking his best  "Sure, There's Something About Me That's Mildly Threatening, But You Think It's Hot, Don't You?"  Which is an excellent accessory, I think.