Random Fug

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.

* Apologies if you're reading this for a second time; for a string of really stupid reasons, we can't figure out if this posted yesterday and then disappeared due to a technical burp, or just never went up at all because one of us -- okay, me -- never has any idea what the date is. It's a boring story, all this drama about whats-her-face down there, but the net effect is that we're posting it now just in case by accident nobody ever saw it earlier. So here you go: Either a fug, or a fug redux, which is like acid reflux, only with less burning and fewer attendant drugs.

This isn't the first time we've featured actress Jenny McShane, of the hit films Furnace and of course Tales of the Kama Sutra 2: Monsoon.

But it is the first time we've featured this much of her.

[Source: Daily Celeb.]

I'm thrilled that she's happy with her underwear. Seriously. Every girl knows the satisfaction of wearing a really comfortable pair that also makes them feel fabulous. Congrats, Jenny. But the producers of the Egyptian-themed soft-core porn epic Attack Of The Sphinxter might be really upset to find out that you raided their costume racks without asking. It's just not nice.

It also doesn't seem like the most apt attire for the event she's actually at: The 2nd Annual Sober Day Convention. Of course, the organizers of this ode to clean living did make the unintentionally amusing and slightly unfortunate move of inviting two girls whose names happen to be Caroline Bacardi and Candice Coke. True story. So maybe they didn't even notice Jenny's nipples.

Katherine Jenkins is some sort of opera singer. I say "some sort," because I'm unsure what opera contains an Italian version of Bryan Adams' "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You," and yet the clumsy strains of that rendition greeted me when I Googled her and got to her Web site. Although I will say this: The song being in a foreign language does a lot for it, because it distracts from how idiotic the lyrics are. If only somebody would translate "Have You Ever Really, Really Really SERIOUSLY Really For Reals Totally Really Really Loved A Woman" into Italian, maybe it would no longer make me want to go on a killing spree.

However, none of the above has distracted me from Katherine Jenkins' jumpsuit. Or pantsuit. I go back and forth. One piece, two pieces... it doesn't matter; it's fugly whichever way you stitch it.

This is really violating Bryan's glorious, sacred message of loyalty. It "Cuts Like A Knife," if you will. Clearly, (everything she does) she is NOT doing for me, or you, or anyone else; were that honestly the case, she would return this thing to Chico's Cache of Cocktail Pajamas -- assuming she didn't outright steal them from Joan Collins' trunk marked, "Dynasty: 1982: Clothes For Romancing Dex Dexter" -- and put herself in something slightly more flattering.

Then perhaps she can trill her way back into our hearts with a spectacular aria interpretation of B.Ad's "Please Forgive Me." I'm not saying this shameless attempt to curry favor would work, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it to spark a magical mystery tour through his discography that goes straight through an operatic "(I Wanna Be) Your Underwear" and lands squarely at a touching foreign-language "Summer of '69." I hope she refuses to rest until she's reimagined every last one of hits -- especially the ones off that 1991 album that has no fewer than 9 songs with titles of six words or more.

He is a delight. I don't know how this became about him, but apparently all roads lead to Bryan Adams, master of the parenthetical and court jester of the written word. Bless him.

If they remade Sondheim's ode to pointilism Sunday In The Park With George as a teen romp, this girl would totally be one of the main characters. As it is, she and her hugely bright rainbow tutu-dress are mostly just making me hungry for sandwiches and potato salad eaten from a really cute basket on a sunny day. While wearing huge sunglasses. And possibly with a champagne-and-strawberries chaser.

Anatomy of a Random Fug.

Step One: Find photo of random walking red carpet in something questionable:

Step Two: Hit Google, Wikipedia and the like to find out who we're dealing with. This particular subject is identified by our photo source as "singer." Must make sure she's not actually some semi-famous New York bad-ass punk who always dresses like this, thus saving myself several emails informing me that she's, you know, a bad-ass punk who always dresses like this OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW THAT? Etc.

Step Three: Discover a distinct lack of information on our subject. Her official site has no "news," no "bio," and no "discography" information.  I don't know who she is, but her people seem to be falling down on the job.

Step Four: Google informs me that she has attended events with Britney and Andy Dick... and that she used to play keyboard Ashlee Simpson's  "band." So... probably not an awesome underground rocker known primarily for eschewing conventional standards of dress, often via leggings that appear to have done hard time wrapped around the brake pads of a cross-town bus, right? PS: I might own Ashlee's first album, so I'm not judging.

Step Five: Reassured that I'm not accidentally mocking someone who's devoted her whole life to the avant garde or who is ACTUALLY seriously blind, I feel totally free to point out that she's literally wearing my gym shorts from high school.

Step Six: Hit "publish."