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May 29, 2007

Cannes Random Fug: Elena Lenina

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.

Posted by Jessica at 11:11 AM in Random Fug | Permalink

May 25, 2007

Well Played: Lily Allen

So, recently I've been reading a lot about how Lily Allen was all depressed and bummed because she feels like she's not cute enough, or something?  (Link goes to Perez, which may not be entirely Safe For Work, depending on your office.)  To which I say: this is patently absurd. Lily Allen is quite cute:

This is so simple, but I kind of covet it.  She looks crisp and youthful and casual, a bit retro, and basically adorable.   It's so summery that I have to shut down the computer immediately and go spend three days making love to Mr. Corona. 

Have a great Memorial Day weekend everyone (but especially you sailors up there with Lily)!  We'll be back on Tuesday, rested and ready to bitch it up.

Posted by Jessica at 03:13 PM in Well Played | Permalink

Fugie Fugogue

Oh, Kylie. Is this Sharon Stone's influence?

I don't mean to point fingers, but let's look at the evidence: Yesterday, Kylie looked adorable. Then Sharon Stone rubbed her armpits all over everyone's favorite plucky pixie with one of the world's most cherished bums, and suddenly, she's part-dominatrix, part-lampshade. Pull her string and she'll either whip you with a bike chain or you'll get some nice, soft reading light. Or both.

Now, I suppose La Stone is innocent until proven guilty, but know this, Sharon: If Kylie takes off her thigh-belt and uncrosses her legs in a wanton act of pantylessness, my index finger of judgment will have no choice but to gesture angrily in your direction. And if that causes me to sprain anything, well, honey, it will be ON.

Posted by Heather at 02:22 PM | Permalink

The Starter Fug

Okay. So....maybe I have set the TiVo to record The Starter Wife, that mini-series Debra Messing is starring in. I know this is not particularly cool of me, maybe, but look: there's nothing else on, it might have cute outfits, and...I mean, you know I TiVo Ghost Whisperer. I clearly have no televisual shame.

But if she shows up at in point wearing this, I am hitting the delete button:

While I rather like the smocking at the waist and the cheery Lucille Ball Day Dress-ness of it all (although...I feel like that point has already been made re: Debra),  this isn't supposed to look as though there are lead weights sewn into the hem, correct?

Just checking.

Posted by Jessica at 01:14 PM | Permalink

Fugit Golan

It would appear that Hofit Golan -- the "random blonde model" of yesterday -- has not since had any epiphanies pertaining to the art of asset management.

Presentation is half the battle, and unfortunately, plopping two cantaloupes on a tray with a red ribbon and calling it your fashion inspiration isn't going to score you any points for technical or artistic merit.

It's as our world's earliest sages have always said: "If the bodice fits, you must acquit." By that logic, Hofit's looking at 20 years to life, with possible reductions in her sentence if she gives up the name of the glue she used to keep that thing up over her nipples.

Posted by Heather at 12:28 PM | Permalink

Fugga Swinton

I know next to nothing about Tilda Swinton, beyond portions of her acting resume. But the suits she's busted out recently at Cannes make me wish her life was more of an open book (one probably called, as you'll see, something like Suits Me! or Just Jackets!, exclamation points required).

Because I want to know more. I want to see what she sees when she looks into her closet. I want to understand.

I would suggest that she borrowed this from Prince's closet, but she is almost 5'11" and even though the pants are hemmed a touch high, they'd be shorts if this had belonged to He Who Was Once Not Named. It might have once been worn by a member of Duran Duran. Either way, it would appear Tilda wanted very much to give off the impression of 80s glam-rock androgyny (which, given that her resume involves a lot of gender-bending roles in the early going, makes some amount of sense). That might warm my heart -- everyone loves Duran Duran! -- were it not for the hideous brown plastic shoes that look like rejects from the Jessica Simpson Collection of a year ago.

However, that outfit is a wave of sleek splendor compared to the next one.

Either this is an homage to your 1976 prom date, Artie Poindexter, or Tilda is picking up some extra scratch by ripping people's tickets as they head inside for the movie. Although the more I stare at this, the more I wonder if she's a second away from snapping her fingers and trying to woo you with the kind of oily earnestness you'd only see from an experienced lounge lizard.

Regardless, it's proof positive that you can indeed violate the mighty tuxedo; we can only pray Intern George (hope you're having fun over there!) did not walk up to her and request the name of her tailor.

Posted by Heather at 11:14 AM | Permalink

May 24, 2007

Fugprice

RANDOM MODEL: Caprice, it was soooo smart of you to turn your bathing suit into a dress!

CAPRICE: I KNOW. This way I can roll off the beach and straight to the parties.

RM: Although, I mean... I don't want to say anything NEGATIVE, but you might have missed a spot with the sunscreen. Your arm is the color of steak.

CAPRICE: Aw, honey, thanks for the concern.

RM: Also, I SWEAR I didn't notice until now, but it seems you might have forgotten you bleached your hair -- those Ken Paves extensions you put in are dark brown. Oopsie! But hey, at least they're REALLY cheap, right?

CAPRICE: Hey, at least my ROOTS are done. AHEM.

RM: Also, I hate to tell you this, but your boobs could not look more like implants in that dress if they had a stamp on them that reads, "DO NOT PIERCE."

CAPRICE: At least my boobs don't look like eggs somebody laid inside a bodice. Whatever will you do when those things hatch during the movie?

RM: I'll use your skirt to wrap up the chicks. Which reminds me, I've been meaning to ask: How many Glad bags did you have to shred to get all that fringe?

CAPRICE: About as many as the blotting papers you'll have to use on your Crisco face. Maybe you might want to use that dress to exfoliate a little before we go inside?

RM: Your peeling sunburn arm goes first, whore.

CAPRICE: Watch that language, honey! You wouldn't want your tongue to shrivel up like your... oh, wait, pose for the cameras.

RM: Smile pretty! You always look like you're trying to determine what smells so funny.

CAPRICE: Well, I can name that stench in two: Your...

RM: Language, honey!

Posted by Heather at 01:59 PM | Permalink

Fuggy Jackson

"So, yo yo yo, dawg, let me tell you something.... here's the thing, dawg, here's the thing:

"Yo, look, man, here it is: I like that you came out here and did your thing. This is all about taking risks. But for me, dawg, I don't know, the fit is only all right for me -- that thread hanging out of your middle button hole is a little pitchy, and embroidery-wise, it's not that strong either, man. I don't know, it looks like you went to Wild Pete's Olde Cowboy Wearhouse and Moonshine Saloon, where a Joanie Stubbs-type ripped patches out of her favorite dress and sewed them to your sleeves for good luck. I'm not sure it's enough tonight, dawg, it's a big night and you needed to bring your best and I don't think that did it right there. But you did your thing. Paula?"

"Listen, you both are heroes -- BOTH sleeves. I can't pick just one. This night is about shining and gravy, and both of those things are on the plate and all I can do is clap, because I do believe in ferry boats."

"I THINK what Paula is TRYING to say is, that jacket is an ABsolute MESS."

Posted by Heather at 12:42 PM | Permalink

Well Played: Sharon Stone

Oh, nutty Sharon Stone. I secretly love you. Let's be honest: how can I not embrace a woman who bounced back from an aneurysm  the same year that her then husband was bitten by a dragon? Who is always sort of charming and delightful on chat shows? Who works tireless for amfAR, even roping Intern George into auctioning off a kiss for the charity? (That's right: we're microwaving our own Lean Pockets and opening our own boxes of wine this week.) Who seems like she's the kind of woman who would chat your ear off in the line for the ladies room, and even if what she says is TOTALLY CRAZY, at least she would be entertaining, so when you got back to your table, you could be all, "you will not BELIEVE the conversation I just had" to your friends? And while S. Sto sometimes shows up places looking completely kooks, when she sets the phasers to "FABULOUSNESS" she can really pull it off:

So glamourous! And shiny! If I owned this, I would wear it everywhere: the gynecologist, the dermatologist, the podiatrist, the market.

Truly, Sharon has it all. Including, it seems, a very tiny Kylie Minogue of her very own:

"Come with me, little lady," she seems to be saying. "Ssh, ssh, my wee pixie. There's an extra drawer in the armoire in my spare room that you can sleep in. I will keep you from the dragons! That's right! Come with Mama."

That being said, just as Sharon's demonstrating good taste in frocks on this occasion, so is she  selecting the cream of the crop of kidnap victims, because, seriously, how cute is Kylie Minogue?

I wish she'd give a Learning Annex class on The Art and Science of Getting Dressed When You're Really Short. Lesson One would be, apparently, "Damn, these are some high heels, and I am awesome for not doing a face plant in them." I would register TODAY.

Posted by Jessica at 11:33 AM in Sharon Stone, Well Played | Permalink

Fug Stefani

I generally can't sit through the terrible American Idol results shows without the promise of being able to fast-forward through the parts that horrify me (read: 97 percent of it). This is how I ended up stalling for time by watching half of She's All That last night, and debating with my friend which of the supporting cast members has since become the most famous. Disqualifying Lil' Kim for just being there on a lark, we got to: Anna Paquin, Dule Hill, and Gabrielle Union in that order, after much debate about the last two. In case you were wondering. Matthew Lillard was also disqualified, on account of Scooby Doo, because DEAR GOD.

Anyway, once we got going on Idol, my itchy trigger finger had to put down the remote so that it could pick up my camera. Because as usual, Gwen Stefani was delivering a hearty dose of shrink-wrapped crazy:

I had thought Gwen passed Harajuku Fever like a particularly gargantuan kidney stone, but if Kimono, Interrupted up there is any indication, she's still got some residual symptoms.

At first, I couldn't fathom why she would turn her obi into a garish rosette after using it to tie her skirt into what resembles a very roomy, overly formal adult diaper. But then I caught a glimpse of who showed up at the finale on the red carpet,... and I realized Gwen must have just fallen and hit her head on the toilet earlier today, and instead of introducing her to the flux capacitor like it should have, it merely caused her to take style tips from the Miss America organization's official court jester.

Yes: Bobby Trendy.

If Charo ever needs a footman for a horse-drawn carriage, this is what the uniform would look like.

And if America were ever invited into the Eurovision Song Contest on some sort of honorary visa -- like, say, if Luxembourg were to just give up and admit it kind of needs to mow the lawn that night anyway, deferring its spot to us -- I would send over Bobby Trendy. It doesn't even matter if he can sing. Between the tulle and the stripper boots and the choker and the little bow befitting only the most spoiled poodle at the dog show, he would be COMPLETELY underdressed, and half the acts would look over at him and snort, "Oh, please, who invited Laura Ingalls Wilder?"

At which point Bobby would have to move over there to lock himself in a Tulle Shed and hone his craft in the presence of the real masters, and people like Gwen Stefani would never be in danger of walking up to him in a post-bathroom-accident delirium to ask, "Hey, will you tie this thing for me? I can't reach." Everybody wins.

Posted by Heather at 10:01 AM in Gwen Stefani | Permalink

 

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