Go Fug Yourself

[caitlin1214]

The 2002 Big Brother UK winner Kate Lawler has had a lot happen to her since she emerged victorious: She was a Capital Radio DJ for more than a year, she briefly co-hosted a morning show on TV, she participated in Love Island 2, and she competed in a show called Celebrity Wrestling as "The Brawler" on a team called "The Warriors" -- sadly, not an homage to the fine film of the same name, as far as I can tell.

Which is a real shame, because given her current walk on what appears to be the wild testosterone side, I'd enjoy seeing the Baseball Furies take on Kate's posse of similarly androgynous, tanorexic 80s glam-rock party people. They could stick their fingers in vintage bottles of Tab and clink them together while hissing, "Come out to PLAAAAAA-aaaaaaay!" And then promptly pitch a barrage of sharp disco balls at the Furies' poised bats.
There's nothing like a heavily costumed gang squabble to enliven the summer, Kate, so get on that ,since you're already dressing the part.

 

[caitlin1214]

Before I did my Magic Google Action on Tiffany Fallon here, I assumed that she was a lower tier country singer I hadn't heard of. In fact, it turns out she was Playboy's Playmate of the Year in 2005, and did some sort of Miss USA-type thing. So...I'm not entirely sure why she's at the Country Music Awards. But she is, and equally perplexingly, she's dressed like Vanna White circa 1987. But nakeder:

I would say that women best known for being naked are maybe at more of a loss when presented with an event that requires clothing, but I suspect that Tiffany here maybe just really loves both Wheel of Fortune and Roman history, and therefore has gotten herself a dress that combines the two in one spectacular blinged-out, toga-fied mish-mash. This is a dress suitable both for a Roman orgy AND for patiently waiting for someone to buy a vowel already. It would appeal both to Pat Sajack AND the Roman Emperor. It allows the range of movement required to gesture gracefully at a sailboat (I miss the Wheel of Forture prize packages. Remember when the winners got to pick out, like, table lamps from a revolving turntable o' prizes? That was awesome) and to vigorously give a sub-par gladiator the big thumbs-down. In fact, I would venture to say that the versatility of this ensemble is probably being wasted at an awards show. I mean, I don't really watch the Academy of Country Music Whatevers (sorry, Host Reba McEntire. It's not your fault. I love you. I'll never forget the time I got drunk with some people and we ended up at the Kinko's on Wilshire because one of my drunk friends needed to photocopy something and Kinko's was closed, and as my friends stood and stared into the darkened Kinko's trying to figure out why the hell it was closed, since Kinko's are supposed to be open late, that being the whole point of Kinko's, I just sat down on the bus stop bench in front of the building and stared out into the street. And then a Porsche pulled up to the stoplight right in front of me and Reba McEntire was in the passenger seat and, because I was drunk, I stared at her and yelled at my friends, "It's Reba McEntire!" very subtly and she totally read my lips and then she smiled at me really big and gave me a huge wave. It was awesome.) but I imagine there are no gladiators or word games involved.

 

[caitlin1214]

There's definitely something to be said for taking a risk, and in that vein, Devon Aoki's edgy dress is a pretty interesting gamble.

And yet, part of me -- okay, almost all of me -- is thoroughly disturbed by how the bodice of this dress evokes silver-dipped lederhosen. It also doesn't look like it belongs with the rest, as if her stylist a) misplaced a more fitting, coordinated skirt and improvised with a threadbare slip, or b) flat-out borrowed the whole thing from Bai Ling.
I'm also sort of distracted by how much the skirt reminds me of the ruffly number Miss Piggy wore in the Busby Berkeley/Esther Williams tribute scene in The Great Muppet Caper, in which Kermit and Charles Grodin serenaded her with, respectively, sweet green charm and impressively burning passion. I almost feel deprived of my Grodin fix now, as if I can't handle seeing this many ruffles if he's not there also, lip-synching his baritone longing for Miss Piggy's caress.

 

[caitlin1214]

Back in the day, when I was but a child, I was totally obsessed with Punky Brewster. That primary-color-loving little orphan's moxie was captivating. And while, even at a young age, I found Punky's occasional tragical whining about how her mother abandoned her at the supermarket tiresome, who could possibly resist the charms of Cherie, Margeaux, and Brandon the dog? Plus, I think we all learned something from the episode where Cherie gets stuck in Henry's old abandoned refrigerator and almost dies, and that something was: don't play in abandoned refrigerators. I spent much of my formative years worried that I would be trapped in a refrigerator that I was hiding in to escape the killer bees that that television also kept telling me were on their way to Los Angeles. And how would I be able to read Harriet the Spy for the 9th time if I were trapped in a large kitchen applicance?
It seems, however, that Soleil Moon Frye (a name I COVETED as a lass. Come on? SUN MOON FRYE? Awesome!) was a girl who didn't fret about being unable to read while locked inside a Fridigaire, but instead spent her formative years afraid of the tailor:

Girl, you are all torso and feet, like a little wind-up child's toy. What happened to the rest of your legs? Did I miss a Very Special Episode where Punky's legs are tragically amputated? Because I feel like I would have remembered that one. Get this thing shortened and show us a little leg, my dear.

 

[caitlin1214]

If you'd asked me to show up at a photocall for my new movie, I would have assumed that a) hell had frozen over, b) you were totally drunk off your tree, and c) I should wear clothes.
But I don't have Bai Ling's vision and moxie.

Only Bai Ling could get away with being this naked and insane for a professional event. Oh, sure, she's wearing a "shirt" -- a repurposed cape stolen from Personality #7's last boyfriend, a dark marauder who wore it while slithering through the streets pillaging blood from the necks of any innocents in his path. And we're fairly sure that in her world, those drawstring leg warmers are "pants," even though they only cover 30 percent of each leg and their primary function in life appears to have been acting as a Christmas gift bag for wine bottles. But, see, that's her vision, and it takes moxie, or a hell of a lot of hallucinogenic drugs. Still, it can't be denied. When she shows up and says, "Today I am a spy impersonating Santa's Krav **** teacher, and I want to hump a picture of myself," the world has no choice but to listen and let The Crazy romp free.

 

[e_pinpin]

great site...thx

 

[jchiara]

It's not the dress, per se.

The dress is fine. It's certainly no surprise to see Cate Blanchett in a very unusual yet very metallic frock, but hey, the lady knows what she likes, and usually she has me dripping with envy. That skin! Those eyes! The clothes! Fab.
Today, though, she has me dripping with sandwiches. There's something off about her in the dress, and I can trace it to her weirdly emaciated torso. It makes me immediately want to slather with Jif any carby material I can find -- French bread, Ritz crackers, a throw-pillow -- and shove it into my mouth. Her left shoulder is particularly odd, the way it doesn't quite fit with the bodice.
Take a closer look. If you dare. Warning: may cause zombie paranoia and/or an immediate craving for potatoes.

I can honestly say I've never before looked a photo of Cate Blanchett and feared she might have a passing interest in eating my brain. I realize this is a weird angle, but still -- her eyes manage to be both dead and dead-set on a plate of deep-fried cerebellum. And she's dangerously thin.
Maybe playing Bob Dylan -- as part of what feels like a cast of thousands dropped into just that one role -- has been stressful. Maybe Cate doesn't like knowing how it feels to be on your own, no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone. Perhaps the answer was not blowin' in the wind, and unfortunately for her, neither was any creamy salad dressing. You know who can help, Cate? The Colonel. He has buckets and buckets of crispy, greasy, chickeny empathy for you, and at very reasonable prices.
* Apparently Cate is gearing up to play a cancer patient, her commitment to which might explain the weight loss -- but we still question the wisdom of an already super-thin person going to those lengths for a job. Seems a tad dangerous to us. But maybe that's just because our job lets us eat Twinkies.

Ahh...I love a good sardonic witty read!!!!!!!

 

[Jeniwren]

I'm still laughing about this part:

"I can honestly say I've never before looked a photo of Cate Blanchett and feared she might have a passing interest in eating my brain"

Precisely what I was thinking!

 

[caitlin1214]

We've posted before about how much we love the ongoing spat between British tanorexic tart-witches Jordan (nee Katie Price) and Jodie Marsh. It's a priceless feud between two balloon-breasted tabloid doofuses that we pray will never have a winner, thereby lasting until the end of time.
Since our last post, Katie Price (who likes to refer to her alter-ego Jordan as if she is a fictional character of her own making) might have gotten the upper hand over Jodie. After meeting breathy crooner Peter Andre in the jungle on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!, Katie-Jordan has managed to get a documentary crew to film their lives; sold a batch of footage to E! that they just cobbled together as a six-episode train-wreck series about their engagement and which includes the precious detail that Katie-Jordan hand-cuts all her skirts to a length of nine inches, TOTAL; designed a pink wedding based on Barbie dolls and paraphernalia she and Andre found at the store; got hitched in a wedding dress that resembles a giant spool of cotton candy and arrived in a glass-enclosed carriage pulled by pink-feather-adorned horses; and made the band that played at her wedding commit unspeakable fashion atrocities.
Not to be outdone, Jodie got engaged after an 11-day courtship and then got dumped when her fiance complained that she was a boozer who didn't bathe enough, and bounced back by convincing MTV to film a reality show entitled Marry Me Jodie Marsh in which she seeks a husband from a pool of men. Seriously, these are two brilliant, confident role-models -- why aren't they Pussycat Dolls yet?

And based on the promotional pictures Jodie's been taking, these men are in for a seriously classy and low-key ceremony trimmed with all the romance and gentle glamour one can expect of a woman who wrote in her autobiography that she once participated in a five-hour, six-person mixed-gender orgy in a barn.
Given that Jodie is the woman who once said, "I've got much more style than Jordan. I don't just go out in a bra and knickers and I don't think I dress like a tart," it pleases me that her nuptial costume here contains approximately 97 percent less fabric than Katie-Jordan's

Although, full disclosure: This was actually my second-choice wedding ensemble. It came to me in a dream. The askew crown, highlights the color of old concrete, the nipple belts, the tutu, the ribbon-enhanced leg warmers -- it was all perfect for a church wedding, but for the fact that I couldn't locate a bejeweled thong with a numerologically acceptable quantity of diamonds in it. Without the thong, it all falls apart.
Still, we're sure she'll find the man of her dreams. The longer she wears an areola harness, the louder she'll whine about the chafing and chapping, at which point the eventual winner will separate himself from the pack by leaping forward and chewing through the offending leather straps.

 

[caitlin1214]

Chanel, of course, is a classic, and there's something fabulous about the composition of this shot:

I just wish Posh hadn't gone for something SO madly 80s. Cropped aqua jacket...and cropped leggings? Plus her Duran Duran hair? I get it, but it feels so costume-y to me. It's like, I look at her and just smell Poison (the perfume, not the band. You really don't want to smell like Poison The Band, if you can help it. I presume they smell like Aqua Net, cigarettes, hard liquor and bologna). If I were her, I would have swapped out the leggings for a pencil skirt or proper trousers, or something. And then I would have scampered into the other room to fondle Becks's muscles and giggle. And then I would have called Geri Halliwell to scream "SPICE UP YOUR LIFE!" into the phone. And then I would have done a series of pirouettes (Victoria is a classically trained dancer, doncha know?) and admired all my expensive handbags. But I would NOT have worn those leggings with that jacket. No, not at all.

 

[caitlin1214]

LINDSAY: So wait... where am I again?
KARL LAGERFELD: Imagine an astral Woodstock, pet. A DIFFERENT PLANE.
LINDSAY: Uh, dude, I'm getting on ANOTHER plane? I just got off this one.
KARL: No, I mean an EXISTENTIAL plane. Where are you? No: Where AREN'T you? I need to feel your elbows NOW.
LINDSAY: What the hell am I wearing?
KARL: What AREN'T you wearing, you PISTOL of GLORY! A dolphin, that's what!
LINDSAY: Why did I trust you to staple a sequined trash bag around my waist? God, I look so bloated in it.
KARL: Bloat is for sad people. DANCE!
LINDSAY: I can't. There's a bike chain on my head and it's giving me an f'ing headache, dude.
KARL: Then tighten it and climb inside. You're FASHION, darling! BE the bike.
LINDSAY: What I would like to BE is lying down on the astrology plane or whatever you said before, and NOT auditioning for the new Hell's Angels ballet. I think this is turning my forehead green. And the gloves itch.
KARL: It's like I told Michael Jackson: "If you can't love your glove, then GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, and also, only floss with real unicorn hair."
LINDSAY: Mom! MOOOOOM! Oh, wait. She's NEVER awake before midnight. God, I feel so alone.
KARL: Like an owl, she flies only at night...
LINDSAY: Hey, I actually understood that!
KARL: Well, accidents are the blueprints of fashion, luscious. Now SMILE before I staple a beak to your face.

 

[bagdizzy]

sizzlin! tnx!

 

[george]

Ah, that's my favourite site and only my list of daily visits...I've managed to get several of my colleagues hooked on it, too.

 

[caitlin1214]

Look, Helen. We have to talk.

You look fantastic. AGAIN. Do you have to look awesome in everything? You are making it very hard for the rest of the world to compete. Fair-skinned, fair-haired people (like, say, me) often can't wear yellow without looking like they're dying, and here you are smiling beautifully in your gleaming paleness and being fabulous. Like you ALWAYS are.
Don't you get bored with wiping the floor with everyone else? Don't you ever have the urge to throw on Uggs and some leggings with a caftan made of paisley terrycloth and watch Cannes fixture Sharon Stone weep with joy that she isn't being outdressed, outshone, outbabed?
Okay, so maybe I don't want you to resort to that. But if you keep this up, Hollywood's starlets might just lock themselves in their mansions and refuse to come out until the end of time, because there's no point; everyone's always drooling over you. And then, where will we find our fug? Can't you think of us? Just ONCE, can't you stop putting YOURSELF first and prioritize OUR needs?
Sigh. At least you might be saving other young actresses' faces from Rose McGowan Syndrome. The girl's not even 34 yet and she no longer looks like herself; as long as you're out there setting the bar super high all around town, you provide a perfect walking argument for how hot a woman can be without messing up her face.
** Oh dear: We just found out, thanks to a kind e-mailer, that Rose McGowan's face is different because she was in a bad car accident a while ago. Which is very sad. So I'm canceling Rose McGowan Syndrome, as we would rather have her alive and simply looking different than the alternative. See? I'm a lover AND a fugger. Maybe Helen Mirren can be out and about combating Jennifer Grey Syndrome instead. Or Marie Osmond Disease.
*** Oh dear II: We just found out that Rose McGowan's story about the car accident is rumored to be a cover for botched plastic surgery. We don't know what to believe any more. Should we be sympathetic that her face looks a mess, because it was a Tragic Accident and she is the real hero? Or should we wonder why we had never really heard about the aforementioned accident much before now, and therefore be laughing inside because it's her own damn fault that she went under the knife with a surgeon who apparently only wants women to look like Teri Hatcher? What? WHAT? CAN WE LAUGH OR NOT?!? Save me, Jeebus!

 

[caitlin1214]

Today SHOULD be a national holiday.
Oh, sure, she's not technically from our nation. But on this day, 74 years ago, was born a lady who grew up to teach Americans about everything that's important in this life: how to be a fabulously dressed, big-haired beeyotch with a penchant for catfighting in lily ponds, hurling martini glasses, lying to your amnesiac ex-husband that you are still married and blissfully happy, wearing jaunty tam-o-shanters and turbans, eating caviar and drinking champagne as early as possible every day, and hissing the names of her enemies at closed doors while wearing sleeves so high and pointed that she could have used them to clean out her ears. This woman is our everything.
Happy birthday, Joan Collins, you delicious, mischievous timeless minx.

You've been quoted as saying, "After a certain age, you get the face you deserve." Well, clearly you're being rewarded for something. Probably, it's all those years you spent giving us Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan and her satin-clad hijinks. Feel free to dump a drink on our heads any time.
You can do it twice if you return to the airwaves soon. Please?

** Edited to add: To anyone who's thinking of telling us about Footballers Wives: We're definitely aware she's on the season that's about to air on BBC America -- what I was referring to is getting her on a major show here, that she could potentially be on for a long time a la "Dynasty," because that's the amount of Joan we need in our lives. But overall, e-mailers: Never fear! We have not lost track of La Collins.