Random Fug

Right next door to my shop that helps you avoid red-carpet mishaps, I'm going to put its polar opposite: a gauntlet of sorts that spits you out the other end fugged up beyond all reason.

Step 1: Pound three generous shots of tequila -- the kind you get in bars that give 'em to you in actual cocktail tumblers.

Step 2: Sit in an office swivel chair and spin around for five minutes.

Step 3: In twenty seconds or less, grab five items from a closet full of clothes and accessories donated by, say, Kelly Osbourne, Cyndi Lauper, Katy Perry, the local arts-and-crafts store, and Sarah Ferguson.

Step 4: Run through a winding hallway while dodging a barrage of random accessories laced with superglue.

And finally, step 5:

Leave quickly before you sober up again.

I understand launching a clothing range and wanting to wear something from it to the big debut. Really, I do.


[Photo: Splash News]

But when that range is lingerie, and you're sitting around at an autograph table in your bra, it just looks like you are losing a game of strip poker. Although I suppose that's an effective way to remind college girls and other gambling types why they need more cute underwear. If you're going all-in at a frat party, you might as well make it win-win.

There's been an accidental bathroom theme on GFY lately, between Claire Danes' soap dispenser and Posh's designer back bathmat, and now this:



I suspect all the shower curtains in Melania Trump's wing of the penthouse look exactly like this.

We have featured Christina deRosa before, and I couldn't figure out who she was then, much less why she'd be invited to the ALMA Awards now. Apparently she's been in Playboy? I feel like that can't be it. Maybe it was because the event organizers were like, "let's see. We really need someone who will show up looking like Princess Leia if Han Solo broke up with her and her friends dragged her out to meet someone new and forced her to wear the hooker shoes that came with her gold bikini but she previously deemed 'too much.'"

You know, I was just thinking earlier that it seems like no one ever goes out in teeny tiny feathered showgirl outfits anymore. But behold:


THANK YOU, Annabelle Gutman! I loved you as "Sweet Girl" on CSI, and who could forget your stint as "Waitress" on Desperate Housewives? But my favorite of your roles is obviously the seminal "Actress" on  V.I.P.  I am assuming that, like RDJ's 'stache, this is for a role? You're playing...a bird? On Las Vegas? Or "satisfied waxing client" on the new show Sunset Waxing (which I just invented)? Or "Hungry Client" on my personal favorite show, Sandwiches Are So Delicious? Whichever, I can't wait to treasure it like your other roles!

Google tells me this sometimes-model is mainly a "punk rock party girl." I would say that's apt:


[Photo: INFDaily.com]

This is one of those photos that I would put in a 2008 time capsule, so that in 30 years people will go, "Ripped nylons as pants? Are you f'ing KIDDING ME?" And I'll be like, "I KNOW, it didn't make any sense THEN, EITHER, and yet it HAPPENED." Too bad Alice didn't leave it back in 2005, which is where the Olsens buried this trend; it's doubly weird because the top half of her looks like she popped in for a day of home-building do-gooding on, like, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and then shacked up with Ty Pennington and crawled off in his coat.

But here is my real question: If a tree falls in the forest, and you're not around to see it because you're too busy finding a pair of shorts that will be completely obscured by your pastel plaid shirt, do they still count as shorts? 

Many a time on GFY we've commented that a person looks like he or she is the valedictorian of clown college.



I think we've found the headmistress.

Well, that's it. Goodbye! It's been fun, guys, but I'm moving to Spain.



Spain is apparently a magical land where, through some nifty transitive property of fashion, your neck brace is your tutu is your cocktail dress; where singers like this woman, famous largely for parody videos, give themselves names like "The Earthquake of Alcorcon"; and where they evidently think Bjork is a quaint little farm girl who could really stand to cut loose. There, clearly, I can finally live as I've always wanted to: as a pole-dancing blue gumdrop. I'm really happy for myself, and I hope you can share in my joy. Adios!

According to our image provider, this girl's name is Eliza Dolittle -- as in, one "o" short of everyone's favorite flower girl. And of course when I try to Google that to find out what the heck her deal is, I get 100 returns that have to do with Pygmalion or My Fair Lady and "The Language of Eliza Doolittle" and whether Keira Knightley is going to play the role in a remake (please, God, no)(although she might be kind of good, actually, I guess) (but for some reason that prospect of an Eliza Doolittle who talks through her teeth at 100 miles per hour is giving me hives).

Ergo, it's hard to figure out who this person is, other than a Scrolldown Fug the likes of which would make Cybill Shepherd proud.



While they're brilliantly handy for arch support, spontaneous dance-offs, and running away from bears, wearing sneakers on the red carpet just makes you look like a lost cheerleader -- or in this case, a LAZY lost cheerleader who can't even be bothered to cut off the tags.

To put it in terms that Eliza Doolittle would understand:

All I want is a starlet somewhere
Who cares enough to brush her hair
And ditches the Nike Air.
Oh wouldn't it be loverly?

The right cute pump could've saved this dress.
(Though it's still got problems, confess.)
If only she'd fixed that mess.
Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?

Sigh. I need to stop before I fully script my parody-song sequel, "On The Street Where Louboutins Live." Instead, I will share with you a Random Fug that likewise would be sure to give Henry Higgins a coronary:

It's gotta be tough being in the Royal Guard. Aside from all that incessant, you know, guarding of things, you're required to wear really heavy hats, and you have all those tourists sneaking up to you for pictures, trying to make you break face and crack a smile even though you're supposed to stare straight ahead and ignore them. There have got to be times when a guard just wants to snap and scream, "BOO! OH MY GOD, THE QUEEN!" at some overeager 12-year old from Montana who is tugging on his pants, which is one excellent reason (among many) that I am not a member of their ranks.

But I think they're great, and as such, it's nice that all that commitment to keeping a stiff upper lip apparently being rewarded with a little visual stimulation for the off-hours.



So, congratulations to Vanessa, the first-ever Playboy Busby and Miss November in the upcoming pictorial calender The Changing of the Hard, in which you will learn what she did with the chin strap.

So, That Movie Of Which You Might Be Faintly Aware premiered in Rome last night, and this Italian actress decided to attend in... well, see for yourselves:



I don't even know what to say, except:

a) I think my best friend in eighth grade owned those shorts;
b) I am pretty sure that is not actually a real blouse, but in fact a jacket that's being misappropriated;
c) this is what Bai Ling is going to wear to her wedding reception someday;
d) PLEASE GOD don't let Tara Reid see this. Putting that much pressure on one solitary button really seems like her kind of party, and if her puppies get to barking, I don't think it would be strong enough to fight them off -- if you get my drift.

And of course NOW a really filthy Milkbone pun is running through my mind, and I have to put it aside because Intern George wants to make Breakup Gimlets to toast his renewed bachelorhood and there is no room for any mental image of Tara Reid in this scenario. I'm not even sure how this became about her. She is everywhere, yet nowhere. Kind of like the direction of this post. George, make mine a double, please.

When I saw this dress from afar, in a wee photo thumbnail, I expected that when it enlarged I'd see a wig-wearing Phoebe Price in it:

Because if there is anyone in this world likely to wear a gown one of the nominees would sport at the Circus Animal Tamers Banquet and Awards Gala -- or CATBAG -- it is our girl P-Squared, who has never met a cutout she thought was too small. Or maybe Bai Ling, whom I imagine actually does wrangle leopards in her spare time. This does not bode well for Corinne Touzet, whose reasonably long resume indicates she might be an actual working actress, and therefore would probably prefer to avoid speculation that she is secretly operating an old-timey brothel -- which, if you think about it, is not that different than lion-taming, but possibly with a smaller whip. Then again, she did wear the dress, so maybe she WANTS people to think she's about to run off and publish a salacious semiautobiographical novel called Petting Zoo.

This girl was on a really funny episode of 30 Rock, which I adore, so it pains me to post this photograph.

However, it pains me MORE that she's wearing: a splotchy denim skirt with what MIGHT be an old nylon around the waist; the same cardigan I kept on the back of my old day job's office chair for those occasions (read: all day) when the air conditioning was on full force and couldn't be turned down and I had no other option for keeping my blood flowing; the boots that Robin Hood wears when it's his turn to muck out the Sherwood Forest outhouse; and what looks like a leotard a gymnast would wear during a routine set to the Little House on the Prairie theme song.

So really, it's all about which is the greater agony. Apparently the fashion anguish won.

Actress Skye McCole Bartusiak is only 16. Therefore, she wasn't even ALIVE in the 1980s, so I will take a deep breath, empty a bottle of moisturizer on my crow's feet, ad try to give her a pass for not understanding that nobody should ever yearn for that decade except for maybe Andrew Ridgeley.

Being a teenager is a tough in front of the flashbulbs. Clearly Skye is trying some kind of self-expression, so I will be restrained and simply note: Her parents are hosed. No, seriously, their authority is totally compromised. In a year or two this girl is going to want to quit school and backpack through Western Europe for six months with her life savings and a Swedish bartender named Ulf, and when they try to stop her, she will scream, "OH YEAH? WHERE WAS THAT RED LIGHT WHEN I LEFT THE HOUSE LOOKING LIKE A CRACKED-OUT EMOTICON?" And they will be speechless, and off she'll go, returning a year later than expected with a wicked crepe habit and a tattoo that says "BITTE, BABY" on her left boob. I just hope they're prepared.

All right, I suppose if you have seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Hostel: Part II, then actress Lauren German technically is not random to you (assuming you could see anything through the blood). And presumably, since she got invited to LA Fashion Week, she's a familiar face to the good people at Mercedes Benz as well.

She also seems to be on a first-name basis with the entire staff at Nordstrom's juniors department.

I hear they have developed a sport out of throwing any old thing over her dressing-room door and awarding a bonus to the salesperson who convinces her to buy the dumbest ensemble. This one, prominently featuring pants that I'm pretty sure my friend Becky wore to sleep over at my house when we were in fifth grade, has to have been worth at least a $50 prize to one such cruel genius. I guess Lauren is milking the ten months she has left in her twenties, but seriously, even my nine-year old friend did better with those things -- and this was at a time when we were madly, blindingly in love with the lead singer of a-ha, wore a minimum of two Swatches at once, and wrote things like, "Stay sweet! Have a great summer and I'll see you next year! BFF 4EVA!" in each other's yearbooks. I am not sure what Lauren's excuse is.

So, I tried to figure out who this Eureka person is, but Wikipedia could not help me -- unless I am mistaken and she IS, in fact, Dorothy Gale's cat from The Wizard of Oz, a large-scale business-plan competition in India, a town in Nova Scotia, or a WWII paratrooper beacon. Otherwise, it's never a good sign when you are a performer but you don't have a Wikipedia page. Surely she has a friend who could get on that, or a few hours in her schedule.

All that may change soon enough, though. This mysterious "Eureka" person is performing at an NBA All-Star Weekend event, and based on what she's wearing, she may soon get her own entry under "Eureka (singer, Lil' Kim impersonator)":

[Photo: Splash News]

This is not an outfit. This is that page in the Victoria's Secret catalog that you come upon and the snort at, because normal people don't lounge around the house -- or a club, or a formal party, or any event that doesn't involve seducing the pool boy -- in itchy-looking sparkly sweatpants and a shiny, swirly bra that's barely holding in your goods. Only Lil' Kim, our favorite nudist sprite of yore, would have the tenacity to wear this outside and call it clothes -- and frankly, Latter-Day Lil' Kim, who got sprung from the pokey after spending all that time in full-coverage orange jumpsuits, would probably snort that this is "too obvious." So this is either a touching homage to the tiny exhibitionist we came to love back in 1999, or just Eureka's desperate attempt to get Diana Ross to grab her boob. Either way, we're pretty sure a Wikipedia page might be born today. Go stick a candle into a cupcake and celebrate with her.

However, I'm still not convinced the beacon entry wouldn't partially apply. You could probably see those pants from 30,000 feet, although they certainly would not make me want to jump toward them.

Relative newcomer Jess Weixler stars in an upcoming movie called Teeth about... well, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll put it simply: Her character's genitals have teeth. Her crotch is a Venus Flytrap, and it is no vegetarian.

Given that, maybe this all makes sense.

Maybe if one of us had to be associated forever with having little shop of horrors in our pants, we'd ALSO shave half the skirt off a Disney Pretty Princess costume and layer it like body armor over a black skirt. Maybe we'd WANT to distract from being The Pretty, Pretty Face Of Vagina Dentata by borrowing a color scheme from a particularly nasty bruise. Honestly, no one knows what the appropriate reaction is, because no one else has ever been faced with being so closely identified with an angry lady-maw.

Well, except for Disney, since I just dragged them into this. If Minnie Mouse starts wandering around Burbank in something similar, we'll be well on our way to a new, groundbreaking understanding. Also, we'll put in a warning call to her gyno.

In searching for information on actress Menna Shalabi, I accidentally stumbled through the looking glass: There is no Wikipedia page for her. How can that be? How is it that there is no self-proclaimed expert on all things Menna Shalabi -- not even Menna Shalabi herself -- who has devoted a free online page to the details of her career and salacious rumors about her personal life, or her pets, or the mysteries of her shoe size? All you get if you Google her is an unsatisfactory IMDb page, a comment on a blog entry that deems her "vulgar," and YouTube footage that indicates that she might once have been in some kind of car accident. Such is my life that when Wikipedia draws a blank, so do I; ergo, I have no choice but to infer from those fuzzy snippets that Menna is an actress who is passionately committed to swearing and has poor vehicular karma. And whose name anagrams either to A Blase Ham Inn -- which sounds unappealing, as there is nothing more disheartening than a bed-and-breakfast that is not fully enthusiastic about ham -- and Inane Lab Sham, which implies she might be prone to skulking around hospitals to pull DNA test switcheroos.

None of which has anything to do with what she was wearing. I just needed to share my frustration. Thank you, readers, for being a friend. But let's get to the point now, which is this:

Truthfully, I'm not sure how you're SUPPOSED to wear a dress with a sheer front. It's a bit like debating how high to pull up your legwarmers, or whether you should wear a turtleneck with the barrel you have poked your legs through -- is there REALLY a RIGHT way to do it? Indeed, having decided that a nude boobular contraption would blend right into nude gauze and fade away from sight, Menna appears to have strapped herself into a serious Bad Idea Bustier on this occasion. On the plus side: If Project Runway ever again asks someone to recontextualize the mighty shoulder pad, this makes for an amusing blueprint. Sure, it'll end up on a Mannequin of Shame, but it'd be worth it just to see Tim Gunn's brow furrow as he scrapes together the last vestiges of tact in his arsenal.

I can't decide if Carmen Lebbos here is AWESOME or out of her mind:

A cape! A corset top! Wide-legged pants! All in BLACK SATIN! It's like Dracula: Saturday Night Fever.

Being as she was born in 1988, Tamsin Egerton missed black mesh armwarmers the first time around. So I suppose I could give her a pass for resurrecting them, figuring she didn't necessarily know better.

Unfortunately, by virtue of the fact that they are black mesh armwarmers, she automatically should have known better. Her foremothers did yeoman's work in allowing themselves to be documented in things like that, so that future generations would live a wiser life. So unless Tamsin has been diagnosed with a near-fatal case of olecranondular hyposanguination -- the medical-sounding name I made up for what history will call Really Freaking Cold Elbow Syndrome -- then there is no Get Out Of Jail Free card available here. Indeed, this might be the photo equivalent of landing on Boardwalk with a hotel on it.

Well, maybe not Boardwalk. But at LEAST Marvin Gardens, which was always my favorite property name in that otherwise horrible, evil game that I cannot ever win. When Ridley Scott makes his movie of Monopoly -- if the apocalypse does not first arrive via a swarm of giant silver top hats -- I somehow envision Jim Carrey playing Marvin Gardens as a slightly filthier Ace Ventura who owns a combination saloon and flower shop.

Christina DeRosa, the best I can tell from the information available on the interwebs, is one of those Actress/Models/Whatevers that abound here in Los Angeles like fleas on a feral cat.

In her case, the Whatever seems to involve having to dress like the lovechild of Joey Tribbiani that time he was working as the Hombre Cologne man, the weekend floor manager at the Gap, and a stripper with a gladiator fetish.

If you are styling a 16-year old British actress starring on a show called Shameless, please don't let her out of the house in an outfit that attempts to prove her show title is apt:

[Photo: Splash News]

This kid is going to look at this picture in five years and be like, "Seriously, you people let me wear that? Why? What is wrong with you? I WAS NOT DANCING IN THE NUTCRACKER."

Still, don't worry, Rebecca. We ALL wore stuff when we were 16 that would make us cry today. Like vests, or cropped sweaters the likes of which Valerie on 90210 would wear with extremely high-waisted, possibly pegged jeans. So when you DO flip past this photo in your family album in several years' time, comfort yourself with the knowledge that -- while it IS a misguided deployment of a tutu -- it's not any of those other things. And hey, if a foot-breaking epidemic sweeps through the entire cluster of ballerinas slated to play Clara this year, you can step in and save Christmas.

When we got an e-mail this morning titled, "The Most Heinous Jumpsuit Of All Time," I thought to myself, "Well, that is coming up against some pretty stiff competition." It's like saying you've found the world's foulest-tasting Brussels sprout, or the douchiest-ever Chad Michael Murray facial expression: There's just too much competition to know for sure.

But, once I laid eyes on the jumpsuit befouling wee pixie Jaime Winstone (British actress, daughter of the actor who is currently trying to make us care about Beowulf on film despite the fact that 99 percent of people who had to read that in English class -- as I did, THREE TIMES in my life somehow -- wanted to hurl themselves off the nearest bridge), I had to concede that this one is probably pretty close to the top of the list:

Listen, we all fondly remember Madonna's crazy conic-bra phase. But the only person who should attempt geometric boobs in this lifetime or anyone else's is Madonna herself. Also, I am pretty sure that thing is made of 150 thread-count sheets she picked up at a Marks & Spencer clearance sale. The tailor presumably had donated his or her hands to science before getting around to finishing this with nothing but feet and his/her teeth to do it, and it's so waistless and borderline dowdy that it resembles nothing so much as wearable fashion for the incontinent -- Depends by Talbots, or something. And finally sweet god, she caught Stumpophrenia from Kristen Bell. It couldn't be worse.

Could it?

It's got to be a little awkward when you show up at a major event and parts of your dress are the exact same color as the carpet.

But I bet it's even more awkward to when the entire crowd is speechless, trying to decide if you are paying tribute to Penicillium mold, honoring Green Week with an homage to the idea of an environmentally friendly Elizabethan England, or simply inspired enough by the concept of a Cabbage Patch Kid to style yourself as though your head is sitting on a bed of greens.

Every so often, as you have probably gleaned from how often we yap about it, we're inspired to let our fingers do the walking on our Random Fugs -- sometimes, we'd rather have another bag of Kettle Chips, of course, but other times our curiosity gets the best of us, and so far no cats have been harmed in any of these episodes.

More often than not, actually making an effort is richly rewarded by awesome information that warms our cold, dead hearts. Take actress Wolke Hegenbarth, for example. When you translate her Wikipedia page -- which we assume is probably not the most reliable or accurate way to read German, but we don't mind; it's almost better when it's jacked up -- it tells you that in addition to her TV role, she's starred in such moving cinematic poetry as One Dog, Two Suitcases, And A Very Large Love, and of course the classic Dead Trousers.

Evidently, the latter was a documentary.

In it, we learn how a girl and her obsession with bikini waxes led to the tragic ritual suicide of all her pants, which shredded themselves in protest because she refused to wear anything that covered her upper thighs. If a disco beach party breaks out -- as we assume it will, because nothing says "disco beach party" to us quite like the German Television Awards -- she'll be well prepared to do the Hustle either in or near the ocean.

Apparently, a theme at this year's boob-tube fete in lovely Deutschland was, "Have you heard about my waxer?" Behold:

Hopefully, medics were on hand to ensure that this Spanish actress was not being slowly asphyxiated by a renegade twelve-pack of black buttons and its venal fabric ally:

However, the upside is that anyone seeking the perfect elaborate neck brace -- with matching jacket! -- need look no further. When whiplash becomes the height of fashion, this woman's nape stylist will make a mint. I'll take ten percent.

I deeply, deeply hope that this woman is preparing to be Spain's entry in the next Eurovision Song Contest, because nowhere else would this outfit be more magical and appropriate -- and yet, at the same time, downright frumpy.

Somewhere in Vegas, a stripper is copying this look to wear to a funeral.

Completely missing the point of the revolution it's bastardizing, Nike is oddly pleased to announce its new line of dress sneakers to be sold under the slogan, "Looks like a sneaker, feels like a pump."

And who better to debut them than a girl who looks like she spent $2 to rent a dress from a costume shop specializing in ill-fitting nightgowns. Which I guess might come in handy if you're playing Daisy Mae in the little-known Lil' Abner 2: Lil'er Abner, wherein Daisy is frightened to learn the details of coitus and flees from her marriage bed. For the red carpet, though, I might've gone with something that actually fit, and was somewhat attractive, rather than an outfit that Forever 21 would cast out of its stores for being "too poorly made."

This inventive dress works brilliantly if you're attending the same formal event as, say, the old high-school rival who makes you want to drop through the floor, the coworker you're pretty sure has the SARS, or the boss who doesn't realize you're secretly a spy and are there on a very sensitive undercover operation:

To hide, simply bury your face in the cranium-sized fabric attachment or yank it right up over your hair, and everything will fly right past you. So stress no more when you bump into the ex-boyfriend who you realized was off his nut when he started talking nonsense about how he wants to name your children "Spackle" and "Rotary Phone," and how showers are too damn bossy for their own good, forcing you to fake your death to get him to stop calling you, except now you're at the same restaurant and if he recognizes you he'll mace you or, worse, put you on the phone with his psychic friend. This will hide you as adeptly as a funeral shroud.

I think I've figured out why Peter Pan didn't want to grow up.

The poor lad's mother was a dominatrix, and it beat the yen for puberty right out of him.

Welcome to the newest innovation in efficient summer fashion: Quilted formal shorts, brought to you by the makers of Bounty paper towels.

Bright enough to conceal food stains; absorbent enough to take care of any unexpected spills, like when you overfill your martini glass, or knock back one too many and trip over your best friend's handsy cousin from Connecticut; and stretchy enough for you to comfortably kick him in the shins when he tries to help you up by the boobs. If only such a garment had existed back when Fergie needed it most. It's like an adult diaper without the stigma. And the awkward bulk.

AMBER: Well. This is... embarrassing.

CHYNA: Tell me about it.

AMBER: I don't get it. When I told you I wanted to wear this, you said I looked like a barmaid at the Mom Jeans Saloon.

CHYNA: And you told ME I this outfit only works if it's my day to fill the pig troughs!

AMBER: WELL IT'S TRUE.

CHYNA: That goes double for me!

AMBER: So if my outfit SUCKS so much, how come you're wearing yours?

CHYNA: ... Peer pressure?

AMBER: God, it's so deadly, isn't it? People just don't know.

CHYNA: Wanna go get our hair cut like Posh Spice's?

AMBER: OHMYGODYES.

CHYNA: I heard that Miley Cyrus say she was thinking about it and I want to BEAT HER THERE.

AMBER: Whee! But let's change first.

Was this International "Pay Homage to the Fashions of Aaron Spelling Shows" Week?

Or is this NOT something Sammy Jo or Amanda or the deadly Claudia Blaisdel and the Case of the Hideous Bangs has ever worn on Dynasty? It's hard to tell sometimes -- all the slacks and flowing fabrics start to run together into one giant billowing drape, the likes of which is just begging to get caught in somebody's flaming candles of hate.

Admittedly, this is not the weirdest Echoes of 1982 ensemble I've ever seen, but somehow I still can't get over the nagging feeling that I was supposed to be spending the week wearing a tributary cocktail of bejeweled culottes, a blouse with puffed sleeves, and a satin turban. And I would. For Aaron Spelling? Anything. Of course, these days, I'd probably have an easier time locating the sensible moccasins, khakis, and denim long-sleeved button-down shirts that the mom on 7th Heaven probably cherishes so. In fact, I might go pick some up now so I can enjoy the last day of this special week, just in case my instinct is right. Plus, that way I probably won't frighten the mailman. He's not spry enough to survive an abruptly deployed satin turban.

I'm not sure who this woman is.

But I'm pretty sure I know who she thinks she is: Emily Valentine, the off-key-crooning, guitar-playing tongue bandit who licked a trail through Dylan to Brandon, slipped a drug called U4EA ("It's '4'you and '4' me") into Brandon's drink at a rave so she and Brandon could trip out and eat each other's faces on the hood of his car, then turned psycho when he dumped her for it and slashed her own tires, sent menacing letters to The Blaze -- which, honey, don't piss off Andrea Zuckerman or she will THINK you to DEATH -- made prank phone calls and then, because there are only so many times you can tell Brandon his refrigerator is running and he'd better go catch it before he realizes it's a prank, finally dumped gasoline on a homecoming float and sat on it playing with a lighter.

Indeed, I wouldn't be at all surprised if this lady tried to get into the party by exchanging an egg. And Jason Priestley is happily married and just had a baby, so someone should maybe check her pockets for any vengeful-looking lighter fluid.

You are in a tragic state of affairs when you're attending an Australian awards show, as this young lady is, and photographed on the red carpet, but your name doesn't even pop up on Google.*

I'm told this lovely girl wearing the dramatic window treatment is named Amli, but Google claims that she is: a company providing short-term, furnished corporate apartments; the Association of Medical Laboratory Immunologists; the government's Abandoned Mine Lands Initiative; American Medical and Life Insurance;  and a town in India and/or Norway. Which makes me think that when she sits down with her team, she needs to fire both her stylist AND her publicist.

* Thanks to our crack team of Australian readers, we now know that this is Amali Ward, Australian Idol contestant, who needs to talk to her PR flack about making sure she knows the correct spelling of her client's name.

This is Calico Cooper. Under most circumstances, this is where I would comment that the cat I had in elementary school was named Calico. She was also a calico cat. I named her myself. At 7 years old, I was not creative enough to name her, say, Mrs Whiskers Waddlelypants or something. This was around the same time that my friend Andrea's brother named their rabbit "Jessica" (this was, mind you, pre-Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) the day their parents accidentally ran it over with the car. As a child, it is somewhat traumatic when something with your name get murdered. And because Calico Cooper's father is Alice Cooper, I feel that commenting on her name might get ME run over, just like that poor little rabbit.

Instead, I'll just say that you'd think Alice Cooper's kid would have bypassed the whole shorty Grandpa Robe and Aerosoles thing.

I've realized what it is about super high-waisted denim that bothers me.

(Sorry, random actress who appeared on one episode of How I Met Your Mother, which I'm sure I watched but don't remember you from, but you are going to have to be my visual aide today. PS: My grammar in that sentence is AWESOME. Conjugate that!) It's not that high-waisted denim tends to give most of us a more prominent belly pooch than we'd like, and it's not that it reminds me of my mom. It's that it reminds me of this:

I was going to comment, in somewhat snippier tones, that I don't care for what clothing designer Jessie Della Femina is wearing.

And then I realized that might not be fair: Is she really technically wearing it? Or is it simply strung up there carelessly trying to decorate her? One enthusiastic shrug, one wild gesture, and the groceries will come tumbling out of the bag.

It's so sad when kids today treat their chests like curtain rods. What are they teaching in sex-ed, anyway?

Lunchtime quiz! (Okay, it's nearly 3pm. Late lunchtime quiz? Tea time quiz? Snack time quiz? Whatever).

My old pal Google tells me that Daphne Guinness' name is not just a coincidence, and she is in fact a beer heiress. Lucky girl. If I were a beer heiress I would totally make up business cards for myself and pass them out to everyone I met, because that's the best title I can think of (alongside that Banana Republic pants campaign where they made fake newspaper headlines about trends that included the words, "Chief Pants Officer") and I would want to brag.

Evidently, Daphne has a history of incredibly kooky, colorful personal style that, for me, verges on masterfully insane. She has an ensemble for every part she could possibly play in the Las Vegas Showgirl Circus, and if we cloned her and opened that very show with all of them, that would be one hell of an evening.

Perhaps Cruella De Vil could emcee.

Suggestion for Sienna Miller: THIS crazy makeup would actually look better than what you were wearing. So consider making Blow The Froth Off A Couple Cold Ones: The Daphne Guinness Story your next biopic. You could totally pass, and it'd give you a chance to try out fingerless gloves and 1,000 rings for yourself, which I'm sure you're dying to try and pull off.

Amy Pearson, it seems, is an Australian pop star of some sort. Having listened to her single on her MySpace, she sounds a bit like....Kelly Clarkson as reinterpreted by Hilary Duff.  Needless to say, it might be hard to concentrate on her sound when she's showing up places dressed like a grape as reinterpreted by a wedding planner:

It's always so sad when a cute girl is cruelly hacked down by vindictive fruit.

This woman is bravely providing Exhibit A as to why one should never knit one's own clothes while watching Season 1 90210 reruns on SoapNet. It all seems fun at first, but then you find yourself gawking at Brandon's fluffy mullet and screaming indignantly at the galling way Brenda gets upset and climbs onto the moral high-ground when the 25-year old she's been secretly dating dares to be upset that she lied about being of legal age. Then suddenly Andrea is going on about  The Blaze being the top-ranked high-school newspaper in the country (ha!) and Kelly uses the word "dorkmeyer" and Brandon's ex from Minnesota tells him he's a "wonderful lover" and then he becomes a total self-righteous douchebag and you're yelling at the television and rolling your eyes so hard that they quit working and you're catatonic for a few days... and then, you wake up one day and the dress you were slaving over only has half a skirt. And because you've been so immersed in their world and their clothes, you start to see nothing wrong with wearing it anyway, over a pair of cuffed  knee-length jean-shorts, because hey, Kelly wore some over polka-dot leggings and she was still popular.

Don't let this happen to you. Oh, don't get me wrong, you should still watch the re-runs -- I believe today is mother-daughter fashion show at which Brenda learns Kelly's mother is a cokehead. But just don't mix the Walshes with your wardrobe.

Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before Formal Shorts placed a touchy-feely hand onto the knee of The Dreaded Manpri and gave it a loving squeeze.

What's next? We've already seen hints of man-leggings on the catwalk. Will Dress Over Pants be caught copulating greedily with a second pair of pants, giving rise to Pants-Over Pants? Oh, I can't look. It's like The Island of Dr. Moreau over here, except with cotton and no aging, corpulent overlord. And no creepy person-animals.

So really, maybe it's more like the annoying garage chem lab of that girl on Hidden Palms. Either way, I repeat: I am afraid to look... yet cannot look away.

I was considering wearing this to my next gynecological appointment, just to cut down on time:

Too formal?

There are days when I just have loads to say about a variety of outfits. The references to Judith Krantz and Dynasty and Sweet Valley High fly fast and furious. And then there are times when I simply don't have to say anything:

I mean, seriously.
 

Confidential to Linzi Stoppard (who is, according to the Interwebs, allegedly the "hottest electric rock violinist in the world," a statement which is probably accurate, in that she is pretty and I also can't think of any other electric rock violinists):

Just because you're attending the premiere of The Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, you're not required to actually go in costume as the titular character.

Okay, true confession: There is one very specific time in which I might be caught with a dress on over pants. See, sometimes, when I go shopping, I quite pathetically realize I forgot to wear shoes that would be easy to kick off -- ergo, in the sweet, warm cocoon of a store's dressing room, I will often decide I'm too lazy to bother removing my shoes and jeans unless the dress fits my top half and appears to be worth a proper look.

However, and this is important, I will never actually exit the dressing room that way.

And while stage actress Lauren Pritchard was correct to assume this dress didn't merit a proper pantsless look, she presumably only did so because she fell into that other trap: thinking it worked just fine as a shirt because it matched her Vans.

I think we've officially reached the phase where these things should come with warning labels. We are at DressCon 1.

Because what's a party without a dude in a corset top?

* Since neither of us watch So You Think You Can Dance, largely because we don't care if they think they can dance, we didn't realize this guy may apparently be Brian Friedman, a judge on the show. Friedman is also reportedly one of Britney's old choreographers. So, maybe he's wearing one of her old clothes as a tribute to her former glory -- the campy equivalent of pouring some out for your homies.

** Seriously? A corset top?

***  Didn't he used to have more hair?

**** No, really. I know this guy choreographed "Slave 4 U," which is awesome, as well as "Toxic," which is, parenthetically, the best cell phone ring tone for an ex EVER, in case you needed one, but just...don't on the man-corsetry.

 

If you, like Laura Sanchez here, are a model who uses her big moment in front of the photo pit to stand hunched over with your hands over your crotch, then consider the possibility that your dress is way, way too short.

Or, in Chicken Soup For The Fugger's Soul terms: Remember, a photographer's lens is not a speculum.

Apparently, it was Crazy Tribute Week at Cannes this year. First we had the woman who swaddled her sex organs in the festival logo, and now we get a girl who is trying to out-Bai Ling Bai Ling by wearing a dress made entirely of film.

And when I say "dress" I mean "bathing suit with strips of film glued to it." All I can think of when I look at this is, she is in big trouble if she walks past an aggressive air vent, or an oscillating fan, or a dude with a vacuum cleaner. Or a dog. Or an industrial-strength hair dryer, or a jet engine, or one of those Segways. Or, indeed, any other people. In fact, she might be better off not walking at all.

What with all the online ragging on Sarah Jessica Parker's new cheapie clothing line, she must have been in a real panic when Loveleigh of the Misshapes showed up to her Bitten party wearing this:

I'm sure the last thing SJP wanted was for people to think she was pimping giant oversized... well, they're not really overalls, and they're not suspenders, so I'm not sure what to call it exactly. It's almost cut like a gigantic vest over bermuda shorts. Or culottes. Formal culottes. What demented madman is threatening to unleash FORMAL CULOTTES on us? It's possible Carrie Bradshaw would have worn this if Patricia Field had the chance. She is, after all, the batty crone who brought us those enormous flower decals; I wouldn't put it past her to unleash this kind of foul thunder.

The whole thing just looks like a romper you'd see on a badly dressed giant baby -- meaning not merely a big wuss, but the actual fruit of Gigantor the Aptly Named's loins. So if you are Loveleigh of the Misshapes (incidentally, also aptly named) people are just going to roll their eyes and go back to speculating on whether SJP has ever had plastic surgery. Because, I mean, we all love Mary Stuart Masterson from Some Kind of Wonderful, and we're thrilled she looked good wearing Eric Stoltz's future. But that doesn't mean we need to resurrect the kind of masculine '80s-wear she would have donned to chauffeur him and Amanda Jones around town.

I'm sure the Cannes Film Festival is very excited to be celebrating what its Web site refers to as "the symbolic date" of its 60th anniversary.

The organizers might be slightly less excited that this woman has chosen to commemorate the occasion by putting their logo on a bed sheet and turning it into the kind of beachwear you'd expect to see at a fraternity's spring-break Wet Toga contest. Although for all I know, they're completely stoked that she wanted to wrap her privates in some free advertising.

Perhaps I should be finding this inspirational. Perhaps I should be stamping onto my linens some stills from the Dynasty credits, or the little TiVo creature, or a picture of a Big Mac value meal, or pictures of Jennifer Garner's Alias wigs, then wrap myself in them and run around town generously promoting Things I Love. I might even get a wig (!!) or a Big Mac out of it. That's WAY better than the movie passes she probably got. I mean, you can't eat -- or go incognito in -- those.

Elena Lenina here has appeared in a number of French-language films, according to our good friends at the IMDb. One of them is called Il Etait Une Fois Jean-Sebastien Bach (translated: Something Something Something, Johann Sebastian Bach) which I at first misread as being called Il Etait Une Fois Sebastien Bach, and thought to myself, "there's a movie about SEBASTIAN BACH, former lead singer of Skid Row? WHERE HAVE I BEEN?"

And actually, I feel like this dress would not be out of place in Skid Row biopic:

Or, for that matter, in a movie about a woman who could put her head on backwards.

Janet Street-Porter is a rather well-known British journalist and TV personality who, like just about everyone else who's achieved a modicum of recognition over there, has also participated in many reality shows -- most awesomely, one by the name of Call Me A Cabbie. At first I was hoping this was a high-stakes contest in which you have to call people some taxis -- possibly while some toothless, grizzled dispatcher cracks a whip against your leg and screams, "WHAT'S THE HOLDUP? IS YOUR DIALING FINGER HURTING? [crack] DON'T YOU DARE USE SPEED DIAL, YOU LAZY GIT!" -- but in fact, the program was just about her and two other people undergoing tests and timed challenges in order to see if they could ever become a cab driver in London.

Perhaps she should have stuck with that profession; the makeshift uniform might have prevented this.

She looks like an impatient extra on the set of ZAP!, a steamy straight-to-video flick about aliens who come to Earth to plunder our natural resources and our supply of Pringles, only to discover that beach parties are way more fun on our planet. We're pretty sure Bai Ling and the Peldons would be in it.

BAI LING: I know, darlings. Despite the fact that my right nipple might be peeking out to say hello, I look surprisingly demure. Why? Why would my many personalities confab and decide to go lo-pro? Because look around you, darlings, it's Cannes. Everyone's tit is hanging out. I'm like Princess Diana floating in a sea of Jordans around here. Look at this young lady:

SNORE. I wore that to my 8th grade graduation.

YAWN. White catsuits with illusion nettings are so Plant Zarcon 2031. I already wore this in the future, you fools.

And speaking of fools:

English TV presenter Melinda Messenger probably thought her dress was a marvelous ode to a Grecian goddess.

I prefer to call it, "Static Cling: The Silent Killer." But on the up side, those dryer-sheet endorsement deals should come rolling in pretty quickly.