September 29, 2006
Welcome to When
Pretty Young Girls People Completely Violate The Sacred Covenant Of Having Breasts, Part Infinity, Part Deux.
Meet Jillian Barberie: brash co-host of local morning train-wreck Good Day, L.A.; participant in primetime train-wreck Skating With Celebrities; fired weather girl for Fox's NFL coverage; crushed that none of this has made her a household name.
I would suggest that maybe Jillian didn't intend to leave the house in a satin shirt that glues her breasts to her torso in sideswept mounds, but a) I find it hard to believe her house lacks mirrors, and b) she comes off as so enamored of her own sassyness that there's no way she doesn't check herself out nine times an hour in whatever reflective surface she can find in the event that all the mirrors in her house are broken.
So all that's left is for me to conclude that her judgment is sometimes just as bad as her current show.
Posted by Heather at 03:45 PM | Permalink
Welcome to When Pretty Young Girls Completely Violate The Sacred Covenant Of Having Breasts, Part Infinity.
The dress, in what we suspect and hope is a terrible optical illusion, totally malforms her chest. It's all droop and little delight, a lopsided mess bursting against the ill-firting seams of the bodice. Please, somebody, get up under there and push them back up (after getting her permission, of course, or else she'll sue your ass before you can say "human brassiere"; she's not a lawyer, but she played one on TV) before the wind changes and they stay that way. Where is her mother at a time like this?
Posted by Heather at 02:45 PM | Permalink
The Fug Next Door
Don't mind me, I'm just here to take a look at September's receipts! Yeah, it was a long day at the office -- you know, everyone who filed an extension is FINALLY getting around to doing their taxes. Man, I wish people would keep better records. Actors, you know. Always trying to get me to write off their facials and stuff. What's that? Oh, thanks. Yeah, it's casual Friday, you know. Trying to improve morale by letting us wear jeans. My morale would be improved with a raise! Totally. Well, I don't want to intrude on your club opening -- I've just got to go in the back and look over your books real quick. Don't mind me. Oh, thanks, I'd love to have a drink later. I'm really not dressed for an event, though. I mean, I've got my briefcase and everything...okay. Just one. But let's make it a double."
Posted by Jessica at 10:48 AM | Permalink
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.
September 28, 2006
Gwen Stefani looked so fantastic throughout her pregnancy; quirky and unusual, but still flattering. And now...well, we've still got "unusual" covered.
I sort of don't know what to say, and I almost always know what to say. Perhaps as an homage to Claridge's, where it appears this event was held, Gwen decided it would be a good idea to dress as Americans imagine a low-level British royal would have dressed in, like, 1983, back when even Princess Diana thought it was a good idea to wear giant sailor collars and dropped waists.
My distaste for the 80s revival has been well documented here, but I think if anyone could pull it off, it would be Gwen. But let's move more toward, like, kooky Lacroix 80s revival and away from dowdy, gift bag-looking 80s revival, shall we?
Fug's Next Top Model
Every season, America's Next Top Model has a grand tradition of casting a couple of girls who have no realistic chance to make it in the world of actual modeling -- which is mostly populated by, like, fifteen year old Eastern European girls -- but who REALLY REALLY want it, and who are therefore mildly (read: dramatically and hilariously) delusional about the likelihood of their future success. Last "cycle", this role was filled by a 26 year old loony named Jade, who spoke in poetry (most notably when she was finally eliminated, an event which prompted an ode called "Left Over Lady." Which she recited while snapping her fingers. Genius. Seriously. Someone needs to get that girl her own show. I miss her.). While the viewers, I suspect, realize that these girls will never really be MODELS, we all enjoy them as excellent reality television characters, and mourn them when they are finally eliminated.
A few cycles ago, this role was filled by Lisa, a girl I first totally hated, then loved to hate. For those of you who are not watching ANTM, Lisa PEED in an adult diaper, ON CAMERA. She did this for reasons that escape me, but which I'm sure had something to do with getting attention. So I don't really know why I'm surprised that she's wearing a shirt with her own face on it:
And yet, I am.
Posted by Jessica at 11:57 AM | Permalink
Mena Suvari is confusing me.
First, she showed up around Bryant Park in this ensemble, which is essentially Catholic Schoolgirl as bastardized by several of today's cloying trends (leggings, tights, imagined air of brooding mystery). As you might imagine, this photo is an especial anathema to our sensibilities because it tries to fuse the dreaded formal shorts craze with The Spandex Scourge.
Then, she shrugged off living in The Now -- the terribly, terribly trendy Now -- and arrived at the Stuff Style awards in a variety of cloying trends from a year or two ago.
Tons of giant necklaces? Check. (Even Hilary Duff has given those up by now, Mena.) Ashlee Simpson's old hair, from back when she was being punky so that it would appear she possessed her own identity? Check. Dress over pants that makes her look bloated and so floaty that she's in danger of being caught in a slamming car door? You betcha! Random extra layer that resembles a sleeveless black sweater? Oh HELLS yes!
I was going to say that I think Mena needs to figure out whether she's yesterday's rebel, or today's preening sourpuss, before she goes any further. But because either answer requires a subsequent immediate, intensive stint in wardrobe rehab, she might as well just check herself in now and figure it out as she detoxes, thus sparing herself any more awkward periods of indecision.
Posted by Heather at 11:18 AM | Permalink
September 27, 2006
Fug The Cover: Janet Jackson
Oh, Miss Jackson. (I guess we better call her Miss Jackson, since I'm about to get nasty:)
Actually, I guess I can call you "Janet," since I don't really blame you for this monstrosity. I mean, you didn't style the shoot. And I'm sure you didn't arrive on set, all, "I KNOW! I've lost a lot of weight in the last nine months. Let's do it AEROBICS STYLE, like an homage to Olivia Newton John's 'Let's Get Physical' video! Except with a BIG OLD BELT! And fingerless gloves, like the kind I wore in Fame! Come on! Put away those gowns! We're going to listen to my body talk!"
I do feel, however, that you need to be paying more attention to the wisdom of one Miss Tyra Banks, who would be screaming her balls off about the fact that you have no neck in this shot (seriously. Almost every episode of America's Next Top Model features a girl getting dressed down for having no neck). It looks like your head just popped right out of your sternum and onto your shoulder. Honey, if your body COULD talk, it would be telling you to ELONGATE YOUR NECK.
Also, to maybe to have a talk with W about their air-brushing team, because they made you look a bit too much like your brother here for any of us to be entirely comfortable.
Lord knows the world loves the comic and dramatic stylings of Parker Posey, but there are times when her other stylings could use some help.
The afro-perm looks alarmingly like my worst bedhead. ... Okay, no, my worst bedhead had to have been the other weekend, when I was told I resembled a recent photo of Carrot Top in Rolling Stone. A true moment of shame. But, this one would be close. Still, as a curlyhead who gets all fired up to cut her hair short and then remembers too late why it's problematic to wear it that way, I can forgive (or at least understand) hair trauma.
My real problem here is the dress. What is the deal with her wanting to be dishevelled? She looks like an Elizabethan nun whose ruff is slowly unraveling. I hate this kind of mothballed costume-shop fashion; it's making me grit my teeth something fierce, because I want so badly to cut off those ratty threads. Kids, don't run with scissors, but if you're going to do it regardless of my warnings, at least do it in her direction so that you can snip those deadly, dangling bastards.
Posted by Heather at 11:01 AM | Permalink
September 26, 2006
The Simple Fug
When friends told Paris Hilton that if she came over, she'd be up to her knees in pure, white snow, none of them expected her to take that so very literally.