September 29, 2006
Employee Of The Fug
Jessica Simpson has been going through a bit of a rough time lately, we imagine. To recap, she lost the post-divorce publicity battle; her lip implants backfired; her career as an actress may well rest in the bawdy frat-boy paws of Dane Cook and the grasping, sweaty, deliriously crazy mitts of Andy Dick; her father is still her father; and her sister has totally stolen the Family Mojo by starring in Chicago on the West End and overhauling her nasal passages.
What's a girl to do? I mean, aside from try to take comfort in the soft, incubatory embrace of a fake romance with a slightly bloated "sensitive" musician who can woo her with syllables and the promise that he might one day write a song and allow the world to assume it was about her? That's the natural first reaction; nothing cures a broken heart like a hollow, shallow publicity stunt, especially one that ends in a cover of Us Weekly on which the word "DUMPED" screams across a photo of you with your lips puckered and slightly parted, as if someone has just offered you a chocolate malt and then yanked it away in a cruel prank against your sweet tooth.
Fortunately for J.Simp, the next step was to normalize her gymorexic physique and Crayola-colored skin.
Oh, but one step forward, two steps back. Because you know what doesn't help in this situation? Thigh-high boots that look like you stapled them together with some felt you bought at Michael's:
The red purse might help her spirits a little. But the boots, Jessica. The boots. You are not so intriguing that you can rebound from your current tragic situation in just any old crazy shoes. You're not becoming the type of person who can pull off over-the-knee faux-suede naughty boots simply because you are Who You Are.
Now, Victoria Beckham, sure. Thigh-high boots? No problem. Kind of fabulous, actually. Not because they make sense, but because we've come to adore her for her half-nutter, half-genius fashion sense. Yes, she can put a foot wrong, and indeed often she puts them both there, but on the whole she's so intriguing that even her missteps come back around to being awesome. (Indeed, we had fervently hoped she would eventually be immortalized as a sort of latter-day Joan Collins, but without the help of the late Aaron Spelling -- rest your beloved soul, you mischievous soapy mastermind, you -- we're having to recalibrate our expectations a trifle.)
But Jessica, we're not there with you. Not yet. You are not Posh Spice, honey. You are not British pseudo-royalty. Perhaps the flickering bulbs in both your heads emit the same low wattage, but where we suspect Posh Spice is quite funny behind the scenes, we don't have quite the same high hopes for you. [Don't take offense; you created the monster with Newlyweds, so you have no one but yourself and your Svengali father to blame for that preconception.]
Ergo, all the boots make us think of is who you aren't. Now, definitely keep trying -- we love a good phoenix-from-the-ashes story just as much as the next tar-hearted cow -- but you might need to aim a little less ambitiously. Your embers aren't quite cold enough yet for a glorious, Posh-esque, dramatic resurrection in oddball footwear.