March 30, 2007
Oh, Miss Tyra. Bitchin' boots, you divalicious beweaved creature, but those formal shorts are a Miss J-sized mess. Not to mention the belt that's giving you square hips. And the blonde weave just looks dingy and sad, as if you're lightening your hair to hide the greys, except we all know that your real hair hasn't seen the sweet light of day since you wore it in a marvelous, resplendent afro (seriously, it was awesome) in cycle 3.
All in all, my judgment is this: If you were competing in a contest for America's Next Top Tyra Banks Drag Act, you wouldn't even make it past the casting special.
Posted by Heather at 02:02 PM | Permalink
Few celebrities have escaped the wrath of GFY over the course of the almost three years that we have been writing this site. People we like, people we don't like: All are at risk. There is, however, one group that we have, to this point, ignored. Here in Los Angeles there is a group of people (mostly women) who attend almost every event, from premieres to charity functions to the opening of a shoe store. These women are photographed. And we have no idea who they are. Literally. They're not studio or television or music executives. They may claim to be "actresses" or "models" but they've never appeared in anything notable, nor do they have a string of non-notable credits. If they do have credits, usually they're consistently playing something like "Girl #3." Sometimes they appeared in Playboy once, but not necessarily. They're not married to any one notable, as far as we can tell. We really don't know how they're getting invited to anything, why they're being photographed, or how they're making the money that allows them to keep up with their Botox schedule. They are a mystery, that, until now, we have basically ignored, primarily because no one knows who they are. But the time has come for us to break our silence.
The leader of this group -- in our minds, since I don't even know that this mysterious group of taut ladies even know each other -- is Phoebe Price. And while we have been silent on the subject of Miss Price for many, many months, at last she has broken us. We can keep our mouths shut no longer. Thanks to this:
"That's not even that BAD," you say. "Maybe she didn't know it was sheer!" Oh, sweet reader. It IS that bad, and she DID know it was sheer. Let us continue to explore the Kinda Naked All Tacky world of Phoebe Price after the jump (some of these are only Moderately Safe for Work):
The back of the Outfit That Broke Our Silence:
Oh, you coy minx! WE CAN SEE YOUR ASS. That's just....listen, our views on underwear are pretty cut and dried. Wear underwear. WEAR IT UNDER THINGS. It's IN THE NAME. Going out in a sheer cover-up over your THONG is just TACKY and DESPERATE.
However, this is a woman whose photoshoots (which she appears to release to image houses in case...we need them? I don't know) look generally like this one:
Who DOESN'T roll around in a crocheted hoodie scarf and nothing else? There's a reason that you can't spell "crochet" without "crotch."
And now that the floodgates are open, we can't stop ourselves from abusing your retinas with P Squared's heinous fashion crimes of the past. Like this one, at Cannes:
I enjoy how bemused the photographers appear. They are all like, "Oh la la! Look at zees one! Her ass! You can zee it right through her drezz! Americaines! Zhey are so tasteless! Where iz my baguette?" Because that's how French photogs talk, don't you think? They wouldn't have been as surprised had they gotten a gander at this earlier look:
Awesome. A snakeskin jumpsuit accessorized with Ima Kill You, Bitch gloves. This is straight out of the wardrobe bin on Dynasty labeled "For Alexis's Tacky Rival (Waterproof)."
While the following was out of the bin marked "Sexy Mermaids," a bin which is right between "Hot Medusa" and "Trampy Unicorns," all three of which are slated to go out with the next load of recycling:
My darlings, these are merely the tip of the iceberg. Look at what we have spared you! We care about your eyes and your souls, dear readers. We want you around for the long haul -- we want you to be able to procrastinate at work in good health! -- and we couldn't inflict these items on you in good conscience. Until now. Because clearly, with The Thong On Parade, this situation has gone from being something we could all pretend wasn't happening to a real crisis. And forewarned is forearmed. So consider yourselves warned: Phoebe Price is out there, and she is going to assault your eyeballs.
Posted by Jessica at 01:12 PM | Permalink
Yes, tights can help you feel more secure with wearing a short skirt. But when the minidress so heavy on the "mini" that you can see the tights change thickness and texture as they stretch over the upper thighs, a.k.a. the Highway to the Lady Zone, then you are violating the private social contract a woman has with her hosiery.
But at least Kiki's hair looks cute, or rather, shiny from something other than grease. It's just a shame her boyfriend Johnny appears sort of douchey and 14. And is it just me, or do his Vadar-gloved hands look disproportionately large compared to the reedy rest of him? If you look at her eyeline, and that of the man behind them, it looks like they both might be laughing at Twerpy McShaqHands. Who I'm sure is a very lovely young boy (whose fly does not, I've decided, appear to be open), but in this photo I can't shake the feeling that he's hoping he and his gigantic palms can steal third base before he has to finish his history homework.
Posted by Heather at 12:02 PM | Permalink
Fug and Fugs
BECKS: Just keep your head down, babes.
POSH: Look, I really can't figure out why you suddenly have a cracking great rod up your bum, David. It was YOUR idea.
BECKS: It was not.
POSH: It was TOO.
BECKS: I was being SARCASTIC. When a person says, "Oh, I don't give a rat's bollocks what you wear -- wrap a garbage sack around your waist for all I care," they are not ACTUALLY hoping you'll do it. Get it?
POSH: Well how am I supposed to know that? I thought you meant, "You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag, honey."
BECKS: Certainly not. I'm not your mum.
POSH: Don't be a prat.
BECKS: Look, I was getting sick of waiting. It took you two hours to pick your shoes. Who spends two hours picking out shoes to go with pants that don't even SHOW them, Vic?
POSH: Oh, well, fine, if you don't CARE about the details. Although coming from someone who couldn't be arsed to tuck in his shirt before throwing on grandpa's cardigan...
BECKS: Pipe down, Simon Le Bon. I'm not ALLOWED to have closet time while you're still deciding, remember?
POSH: And I expect you're going to blame that hat on me, too, now.
BECKS: It's the only thing I could find that might help me hide.
POSH: Our reality show is going to be bloody brilliant.
March 29, 2007
Now that Hilary Duff's new teeth are fixed -- or she grew into them, or whatever -- I actually think she's been looking really hot, especially with her darker hair. Which is why this scrolldown is so very tragic:
It's like, casual, casual, casual, an extra in the Love is a Battlefield video, the floor. And while Hilary is certainly quite cute, Pat Benatar she is not.
I am beginning to think that either Kristen Bell or her stylist or both of them are suffering from some kind of body dysmorphic disorder wherein they think she is way, way bigger than she actually is. Because Kristen Bell is a teeny tiny little teeny person and yet whoever picks out her clothes for her everyday seems to think that she's about ten feet tall. Like this:
I actually kind of like her top. It's so LOUD and retro and Palms Springs-y, and I have a weakness for loud, retro, Palms Springs-y tops. But MAN ALIVE is it overwhelming on her frame. I think she's wearing it with slim jeans, and rightly so (it's hard to tell in the picture), but I honestly think she's just too small to wear something this bold in both cut and print, period. It's just not flattering and I can't really think how she could ever pull it off. If it were a solid color, sure, or had either the billowing cut in the body of the shirt OR the big sleeves but not both, maybe. But as it is, she just looks like a little girl playing dress up down at her grandma's condo by the golf course. Next, maybe Grandma will let her drink some General Foods International Coffee and pretend to smoke a cigarette out on the lanai!
This isn't an isolated incident, either. La Bell is almost always wearing something that looks far too big on her. Like earlier this week, at the Neiman Marcus event that's yielded so much material for us lately:
"I'm wearing a red sequined sack!" she says. "I fashioned my dress out of one of those old school sun-reflectors people used in 80s movies to fry their faces to a crisp," Melissa George says. "Together, you need sunglasses just to look at us!"
For serious, Kristen, you are just overwhelmed in that thing. Which is a real shame, because you can rock the red when you get the cut right:
So much better! And while I actually like the sequins on the first get-up (see: my secret love for clothing that might actually be costumes -- I'm not joking, I have a pink and gold lame brocade coat and I wear it. In my defense, the lame is pretty subtle. Okay, I know that's impossible. And yes, I know that I just lost what little credibility I ever had, but I think we'll all manage to go on. Maybe, now that I have destroyed said credibility, I shall go on in a turban of some sort!), this silhouette is so much more flattering to her body. Because we can, you know, see it.
So, get thee to a tailor, little Miss Mars. Start getting things taken in and up, so we can all admire your cute little shape. Then we'll go out shopping for floral print muumuus together and we can discuss why YOU think Veronica Mars is so much more annoying now than she used to be. I have some theories I'd like to get your thoughts on.
Como Fuga Una Mujer
"Sequined chain mail? That's what you think of my shirt-shawl-drape-dress-poncho-thingy? Are you KIDDING me with that, estupido? Tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, you are being GLIB with me. If you start talking about chain mail, you have to read the research papers about chain mail, which is what I have done. Chain mail is a pseudofashion. You do not know the history of chain mail. I do.
"Also, I don't know WHERE you got the idea, but there is NO TRUTH to the rumors that I am becoming a Scientologist. Nada. None at all."
Back to Fug
I had to actually double check the date on this picture to make sure that it wasn't from Those Dark Days when Christina was running around with the ass cut out of her chaps. It's so sad to see someone who's been looking so awesome lately slide back into the world of tan-colored pantyhose:
There's GOT to be a reasonable explanation for this, right? Like...she was just on a long, long flight, and these are compression hose designed to prevent her from having a deep vein thrombosis. Or she's on her way to the ice skating rink to practice her long program, and the hose keep her legs warm, while that bra acts as an air bag if she falls on her face. Or she and Jordan had a bet and she lost it, which would also explain why she looks so cranky. Let's just decide that's it.
Posted by Jessica at 10:25 AM | Permalink
Fuglie de Ravin
Perhaps wearing better shoes would have saved Emilie de Ravin from looking as if she had been styled by a pinata salesman. As it is, though, she couldn't hope to sell that outfit with the way she's venturing down the dangerous path Kirsten Dunst blazed -- the one where are forced to assume that ten seconds after this photo was taken, Bea Arthur beat her over the head with a cheesecake for stealing her sandals.
I wonder if that's why Emilie looks so confused and unhappy here; it's possible she saw, in the distance, a blur of loud fabric shooting toward her and knew she was headed for trouble. Brings new meaning to the slogan, "It was a Chico's kind of day."
Posted by Heather at 09:41 AM | Permalink
March 28, 2007
You know that part during the Oscars pre-show where one of the Nancy O'Dell-types asks all the actors what they ate before the red carpet, thereby continuing society's fascination with the eating habits or lack thereof of the rich and famous? And Cameron Diaz is usually like, "I ate a 4 x 4!" and Beyonce is like, "I had a Big Mac!" and Jessica Alba is like, "I inhaled a Whopper!" because part of the problem in Hollywood is not only that no one eats ever, but also that no one eats and then totally pretends that they eat ALL THE TIME and they never have to work out, really, even though they have their picture snapped rolling around with an exercise ball with a trainer all the time and then everyone in the real world is like, "Damn, she eats cheeseburgers all the time and looks like that? WOE IS ME," when the truth of the matter is that it takes a lot of work to be as trim as most of those girls.
So when they got around to E! host Debbie Matenopoulos and she said, "Oh, I don't eat," I was kind of like, "oh, honesty! How refreshing! Will someone please pass the bucket of wings? Oh, and the Oreos. An some cream cheese, if you've got it." But now that I've seen some recent pics of La Matenopoulous, it's kind of clear that she really wasn't kidding, nor did she mean, "I haven't eaten in two weeks so I can fit into this dress."
The trouble is, she seems so pleased that she doesn't eat, from announcing it gleefully on television, to aping the dress Keira Knightley wore that prompted everyone to scream "EATING DISORDER." It didn't work on Keira and it scares me a bit on Debbie as well. And while Keira was like, "listen, bitches, I've always been skinny," I kind of get the impression that Debbie's reaction might be, "oh, you NOTICED! I'm so glad." And, honestly, that's kind of f'ed up. Not ever eating isn't really, you know, awesome. It's just no fun.
So here's yet another in our long line of pleas to the ladies of the world: we were not all built to weigh 90 pounds. Being healthy is a good thing: being HUNGRY just makes you really crabby and then your face starts to look prematurely aged, and while some people believe you can never be too thin, there's no cliche along the lines of "you can never be too cranky and gaunt."
Apparently, cheeseburgers can help. Get on it, Debbie. Your body fat really misses you.
Posted by Jessica at 02:17 PM | Permalink