LA Fugshion Week: Random Fug

All right, I suppose if you have seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Hostel: Part II, then actress Lauren German technically is not random to you (assuming you could see anything through the blood). And presumably, since she got invited to LA Fashion Week, she's a familiar face to the good people at Mercedes Benz as well.

She also seems to be on a first-name basis with the entire staff at Nordstrom's juniors department.

I hear they have developed a sport out of throwing any old thing over her dressing-room door and awarding a bonus to the salesperson who convinces her to buy the dumbest ensemble. This one, prominently featuring pants that I'm pretty sure my friend Becky wore to sleep over at my house when we were in fifth grade, has to have been worth at least a $50 prize to one such cruel genius. I guess Lauren is milking the ten months she has left in her twenties, but seriously, even my nine-year old friend did better with those things -- and this was at a time when we were madly, blindingly in love with the lead singer of a-ha, wore a minimum of two Swatches at once, and wrote things like, "Stay sweet! Have a great summer and I'll see you next year! BFF 4EVA!" in each other's yearbooks. I am not sure what Lauren's excuse is.

New York Fugshion Week: Day Eight

All of Fashion Week was fun, but few things will match the experience of seeing this man in the flesh at a  show:

I wonder how Wilmer Valderrama felt, sitting quietly as he did in his seat before Federline arrived, having read the name on the chair next to his and therefore knowing what was coming. Hopefully this conversation does not involve Kevin giving Wilmer tips on how to apply that wimpy little mohawk to his own head. And yes, for the record, K-Fed totally changed his suit in the 15 minutes between the end of Sean Jean and the time he showed up at Marc Jacobs. I can't wait until this clothes-conscious step in his evolution ultimately takes him straight down Elton John Blvd. to wearing outrageous jumpsuits and other crazy crap. Hey, it beats saucy trucker hats.

• At Donna Karan, Susan Sarandon showed those plastic-faced actresses how it should be done.
• We were standing two feet from K-Fedat Sean John and we didn't once want to smack him! Well, maybe because of that awful hair. But otherwise, we must really be okay with him now.
• And finally, our wrap-up post, including bits and pieces we couldn't fit anywhere else and our disappointment that J.Lo didn't show up at ex Sean Combs' fashion show. Tell me that wouldn't have been dramatic.

New York Fugshion Week: Days Six and Seven

You know, it looks like we might get out of this city without an arctic blast, after all. We were afraid to hope.

This woman is afraid of nothing.

I would be afraid, for instance, of: Diet Coke, marinara, city grime, potato chips, fruit, energy bars... pretty much anything. It takes a lot of guts to wear that much glaring white. Of course, it also takes guts to wear high-waisted jodhpur-like pants. With a belly shirt. I'm pretty sure they stuck poor Tiffani Thiessen in stuff like this both on Saved By The Bell AND on Beverly Hills, 90210, and so all Ali's really done here is a) look really dated, and b) remind us of an actress we like a whole lot more. Also, I can't figure out why Ali Larter wears so much white -- she does it with dresses, too, and it's not that flattering to her skin tone. I suspect this all began with Varsity Blues, when she wore that whipped-cream bikini and decided to make that her style inspiration for the rest of her life.

• Also, Ali Larter acted sort of rude at Calvin Klein.
• Poor Vincent Gallo -- no, really, we just said "poor Vincent Gallo" -- might've gotten quietly dissed by a little girl at Anna Sui.
• Thank God for Mariska Hargitay, or else we'd have had nothing to file from Vera Wang.
• We had a total fangirl geek-out moment at Cynthia Rowley... over Lindsay Price. Yeah, we know. But she was REALLY CUTE on 90210! Believe!
• Tommy Hilfiger's show brought us to our knees. For real.
  

New York Fugshion Week: More Day 5 and Some Day 6

Is it already Day Six? Does this mean we get to sleep in our own beds again soon? Although we're quite giddy after today's champers-fueled event at Marchesa, at which we got to bask in the warm glow of a hugely pregnant -- and two weeks from popping -- Jennifer Lopez.

Watching her swell with child has been truly fascinating, considering this is a woman who's rear end has been the subject of national -- and probably international -- fascination. We're happy for her and she looks healthy and happy, but we still can't stop studying the effect pregnancy has had on her face. Don't get us wrong, she's still pretty, but instead of looking like J.Lo, she looks a bit like a J.Lo impersonator who went too crazy with the collagen (and occasionally, in some shots, like Valerie Bertinelli, but only from specific angles -- trust me on that one; I'm not nuts, or at least, I don't think so, but then again neither does Britney so whatever). At any rate, we were kind of embarrassingly excited to see her so up-close and personal. In Los Angeles you're not supposed to look like you're noticing the celebrities out in the wild, but at Fashion Week, it's your job to ogle. Bless.

• The highlight at Narciso Rodriguez: The Return of the Seinfelds.
• The second we saw Lance Armstrong walk into ex-girlfriend Tory Burch's presentation, we prayed for a tearful reunion. Didn't get one. Still, it made for some great speculation.
• We're crushed we didn't get a breath mint from The Donald, but thanks to Celebrity Apprentice, he's given us so much already that we can't REALLY be upset.
• Jennifer Lopez was unusually chatty about her due date at Marchesa.
• Dear Veronica Webb: It's not gingham time. Indeed, is it ever?

New York Fugshion Week: More Day 4 and Some Day 5

It's been an eventful Fashion Week full of wonderful lessons -- for one thing, we realized that since we last saw her, Brittany Murphy has turned 65.

Congrats, sweetie! And good luck in the shuffleboard tournament next week.

• Brittany Murphy is by far the most entertaining person we've seen all week. No, for real, she was all melodrama and madness at Max Azria.
• Amy Adams arrived on time to Proenza Schouler. Somebody dropped the ball when it came to teaching her how to be a celebrity at Fashion Week.
• If she plays it right, that cute Ana Ortizwill probably be wearing Badgley Mischka for at least the next two years.
• As much as we love Sophia Bush, we REALLY need new people to write about, so thank you, Perrey Reeves and Kim Raver.
• Oh, Fergie-Ferg, no need to fidget. You look fine.

New York Fugshion Week: More Day 3, Some Day 4

Oh, Miss Tyra, you do amuse us so. We like to call this touching portrait A Girl And Her Twinkie:

Gotta respect a woman who not only puts greasy baked goods in her mouth, but thinks it's fun for it to happen on camera. And also, I know some people out there want us to stop yapping about Miss Tyra's wig or weave or whatever we feel like calling it that day -- it could be both, or neither; it is all things, and yet it is nothing -- and we do feel you. We do. But seriously, HOW do you expect us to do that? How? We are but mortal. We adore her crazy hair. It's impossible to resist discussing something that looks so heavy and itchy and as if it was recently shorn from the business end of a horse. So, with apologies to those non-congratulators, we not only can't not reference it, but in fact, it gets its own affectionate section in our book  -- which, shameless plug ahoy, hits stores today. The City of New York is courteously throwing a parade to honor the occasion, although I think there is some nonsense about us sharing the party with Michael Strahan and Eli Manning. Pish. We call shenanigans on that.

Here's what we were up to while Tyra was romancing her snack cake:

• Ellen Pompeo seemed very pleasant in perilous circumstances at Y-3.
• Chloe Sevigny barely conceals her distaste for Miss Sixty; Milla Jovovich at times doesn't even try.
• Angie Harmon is a smart girl, getting a hair wrangler to make sure everything was in place before her photo op at Carolina Herrera.
• We wish Tim Gunn could've stopped the rock at Catherine Malandrino. That music was scary.
• What happens when a fashion show starts on time? Some celebrities miss it, that's what.
• Do you think Betsey Johnson gave attendee Joan Jett another dime to put in the jukebox, baby?
• Maybe Eliza Dushku can figure out what the hell the gift was at Ports 1961.

New York Fugshion Week: Days 1, 2, and 3

Yep, it's that time of year again: Fashion Week in the Big Apple, minus the arctic blast, plus a few drops of freezing rain here and there, and multiplied by a hometown Super Bowl win (and to think people doubted us when we picked Eli to win the battle of the quarterbacks!).

As usual, we're going to try really hard to update when we can, but if we're not as frequent as usual, please bear with us -- we'll be back home this weekend and working on our regular schedule. In the meantime you can always get a fug fix by wandering over to The Cut, New York magazine's fashion blog, where we're posting our dispatches.

• Oh, Joy. Mandy was able to keep her goods inside her Herve Leger dress; why did your nipple sneak into our view?
• The week kicked off with Liza Minnelli singing live. No, really.
• Christina Milian later claimed her bouffant, which she debuted at BCBG, took three hours to prepare. We believe it.
• Make no mistake: Vivica A. Fox "is not a hater. [She's] a congratulator." Whatever you say, Viv!
• At Abaete, Sophia Bush demonstrated why she was always too good for that Chad Michael Murray scoundrel.
• Forget Niki Taylor -- at Alexandre Herchcovitch, we saw Miss USA hit up Nigel Barker for his business card.
• Headbanded socialite Arden Wohl was a breath of fresh, crazy air at Alexander Wang.
• The Rock & Republic show was a fatal accident waiting to happen -- and that was without Vivica A. Fox's wild gesticulating.
• More socialite shenanigans at Preen.

Again, we promise we'll put up a post here and there when we get a second to breathe, but if our best efforts aren't enough, we'll totally be back on track beginning Monday. I mean, we can't leave Intern George to his own devices for THAT long. He'll make origami swans out of all the paper towels, and those things can really pile up fast.

London Fugshion Week: Tara Reid

I feel like we've asked this question before, but I'm compelled to pose it again: SERIOUSLY, didn't she supposedly get those things fixed?

And if she did get 'em taken care of, why is she not now taking care of them? We appreciate that she is trying to be perky, but the one on the left appears so embarrassed that it's trying to take shelter in her armpit, and the one on the right just looks too depressed to do anything but sulk. It was a fixable issue, too -- a better dress, a little underwire, and we'd have been off to the races. Obviously, the cautionary leaflet her surgeon gave her -- Don't Be A Boob About Your New Boobs, sponsored by Playtex -- is lying in a crumpled heap in her car next to the Us Weekly issue in which she exalted how all that corrective surgery changed her life.

Still, I can at least take comfort in the fact that, with Tara Reid back to being kind of a mess, the world is apparently back to turning properly on its axis.

New York Fugshion Week: Day The Last

And, we're done: 40 shows, eight days, several bagels, and two swollen suitcases -- each -- and we're finally heading back home. Our feet are seriously jacked up at this point; this is what two L.A. girls get when they bring their high heels to New York and try to enjoy it as a pedestrian city. There's always that one day where you think you can walk a little further before changing into walking shoes, and you are always grievously wrong. Life is hard.

We're traveling today and will be back for real tomorrow, just in time for the weekend... which, thoughtfully of Hollywood, involves watching the Emmy Awards and praying for widespread insanity to rip through town and addle the fashion judgment of TV's finest.

In the meantime, here's a brief clip show of how we closed out the week in the City That Never Sleeps:

• We're so pleased to note that Marc Anthony is everything we wanted him to be.
• Guess which singer seemed hugely cranky at Tommy Hilfiger? Well, you don't have to, actually, because we can't NOT share.
• It's not up yet as of this posting aha, but it's posted here as of this edit) but check Show & Talk for our roundup of our favorite and least favorite moments, plus a few tidbits that never made it into our dispatches.

As for Mrs. Marc Anthony, well, we wish she'd spent more of her design budget on the actual clothes instead of the kooky production values:

"Madre de Dios, I did it!" she is thinking. "I have beaten Target at its own game! Take your Proenza Schouler and your designer lines and smack them in the cojones, bitches! I can give you cheap hems and nipples and like you've never seen! DRINK IN THE MAJESTY and ask me later how I did it all for $5! Adios! HA HA HA HA! Shit, why is Marc drinking V-8? He knows I hate it when his fangs are red."

New York Fugshion Week: Jennifer Lopez

ROBERTO CAVALLI: What a marvelous caftan. If I could smile, Jennifer, I would.

LA LOPEZ: Gracias, my tiny robot friend, you are too good to me.

CAVALLI: That outfit eats you in an explosion of frumpy glee. It looks like you're going to a polo party in the middle of the handbag section at Saks. I no longer need your mortal sleep, but if I did, your caftan would be a dream.

LA LOPEZ: I can't even let you SEE my hair, though, Robert. Dios mio, what a week! Between the parties and the preparation for my fashion show, I haven't even had time to wash my hair in Evian, like normal! I've been using tap water! Like a savage!

CAVALLI: ... Ooh, yes, savage! It's a SAVAGE dream! In which the Chrysler building pierces my navel while Salvador Dali watches. It's magic. Do you do parties? I must strongly consider stepping closer to you.

LA LOPEZ: Sigh. Could somebody please reboot him? Marc never needs to restart until dawn. I miss his wee undead cheekbones.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 7

We were already sad that Fashion Week is almost over (we'll be back to posting regularly on Friday). And then the rain came, like giant dirty tears from the sky. Maybe God was crying in anticipation of J Lo's runway show, which was apocalyptic in its own way. More on that tomorrow (sadly, no one wore fur hotpants, or a cardboard box for a hat. Also, no mink eyelashes were sighted on people who were not us).

But for now:

• John Varvatos presents a show with a sobering, spectacular view and also: lots of dudes.
• LeAnn Rimes is such a pretty girl. Why does she wear so much makeup? Also, get that hair out of your face, and stand up straight, young lady.
• Donna freaking Martin makes an appearance. Now if we could only track down Brenda...
• It turns out Julianne Moore, whilst always lovely, is best as a redhead, much like Anne Shirley.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 6

Fashion Week continues apace, full of humidity, rain showers, hot tennis players, and yet more Vincent Gallo. We accidentally made eye contact with him the other day. It was scary...yet somehow intriguing. It felt a lot like this:

In all fairness, though, in spite of looking...you know, like he wandered away from the Manson Compound, Vincent HAS seemed rather cheery and enthusiastic every time we've seen him so far this week. Maybe he's turned over a new leaf, one that doesn't involve as many on-screen sex acts.

Voila, Ye Olde Highlight Reel:

• We are, yet again, rather mean to Jessica Simpson. But seriously. What is her deal?
• We totally eyeballed pregnant Juliana Marguiles and her sexy fiance. We saw them canoodling last year and said to each other, "each other, that dude with Juliana Marguiles is HOT. Girlfriend needs to lock that down!" And now she has. We feel so proud. Also, we have to note that we're aware that almost everything we've said in the last week has somehow featured the phrase, "total hottie," but in our defense...I don't know. Boys are cute. If two girls on the loose in the Big Apple can't appreciate, say, Nigel Barker, what has the world come to, I ask of you? What? PS: Roger Federer is hot, too.
• So are Alyson Hannigan's new bangs, thank god.
• Did someone say "Roger Federer?"  His hotness actually received APPLAUSE at Oscar de le Renta.
• Ending the hot streak? Ryan Cabrera.

New York Fugshion Week: Days 3, 4, and 5

The humidity tried to beat us down on Friday, clenched its gnarled fists again on Saturday, and whupped us but good on Sunday. Still, it doesn't ruin our moods -- Bryant Park looks pretty, if crowded; the clothes are cute; the cold Diet Cokes go down like magic tonic; and there was a glut of celebrities taking in whatever shows they could before flying west for the VMAs. We are trying not to feel deserted.

Here are the highlights:

• Ivana Trump really should've been talking to Padma Lakshmi about Top Chef. It's what we'd have done. Well, no, we'd probably have sat there in silence thinking, "God, I really should be talking to Padma about Top Chef, but all I can do is stare at my pedicure and wonder why it's not holding up very well." But Ivana Trump doesn't have our problems.
• Somebody please give Candace Bushnell some nap time. Maybe All My Children can give her a holiday, like they did for the beguiling Leven Rambin.
• It's nice to see Nicole Richie continuing to class up her baby bump, even though we can't always see it.
• Kate Bosworth shouldn't do her hair that way. Couldn't Anna Wintour have counseled her?
• Kyra Segwick is wee.
• Janet Jackson looks fine, everyone. Let's just calm down about her ass.
• Demi Moore COULD NOT keep her hands off Ashton Kutcher. Not that w blame her. In fact, it was sort of endearing.
• Vincent Gallo is still gross; Samuel L. Jackson is still motherfuggin' awesome. And when they're in the same photo, it just makes them each look more like they belong in those categories.
• Poor Gossip Girl kid. She really needed a handler to make sure she got to the Peter Som show before it started.

We do wish we'd been able to see Molly Sims' whole outfit from the Max Azria show in the moment, rather than so far after the fact. Behold:

It's a scrolldown from stylish to scullery maid.  She can show up to the ball and clean out the bathroom stalls! So handy.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 2

After two days, countless subway rides (which we actually love) and way too many toe blisters, the New York cab drivers' strike is finally finished. Allegedly. Please, God. I feel like Amber on Big Brother, sitting on my bed tugging at my necklace and weepily thanking you aloud for the special vision you gave me of us swanning around town in easily accessible taxis -- finished with a heartfelt if slightly strange, "God bless you, God."

Here's a look at our latest on Show & Talk:

• Forget the other celebs at L.A.M.B. Little Kingston Stefani Rossdale totally stole the show, along with several hairs from Diddy's coif.
• Okay, no, forget Kingston; Clive Owen is the hottest thing we've seen yet. In fact, we reached an overload on use of the word "hot" because of him.
• Teri Hatcher was the orangest thing we've seen.

Also, when we mentioned that Mischa Barton looked "dressed down" and a little slovenly at Miss Sixty, we were being charitable. Check it:

Girl, please. Did you even go home last night? Are those your pants, or the pants of some reedy, seedy rocker dude you picked up at an after-after-after party and swapped clothes with because he had such trendy skinny jeans? Did somebody cast you in Groupies: A Gonorrhific Tale?

We give up. It's a waste of what you've got, but since when have you listened to us?

New York Fugshion Week: Day 1

On our first day prowling the tents at Bryant Park, we can report with fair confidence that Ashlee Simpson's nose job is just as good as we thought; Sophia Bush is one of the celebs we most want to take out for shopping and an Ice Blended; and we couldn't be more thrilled that Jessica Paster seems to be eclipsing Rachel Zoe as Hollywood's favored stylist because she doesn't seem interested in a) undereating, b) overtanning, or c) spawning clones. She also seems less likely to want to kick us in the face, but you never know.

But by far the best celebrity sightings of the day are things that we trust most of our readers will cherish as we do. First, roaming around the Vena Cava show was the latest and yet slightly less douchey deviant boyfriend on The Hills: the one and only Justin-Bobby (so named, for the uninitiated, because....some of his friends call him Justin, and some call him Bobby, or something, like, HELLO, Audrina, this is NOT GOING TO WORK OUT, regardless of the fact that he's also the kind of dude who says stuff like, "Truth and time tell all," instead of a simple, "Nah, I don't I'm ever going to commit to you"). Naturally, J-B was wearing what appeared to be a homemade beret.

Then, back at the tents just in time for Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. show (more on that tomorrow), we actually unconsciously grabbed each other's arms in delight when we caught sight of John Basedow, Patriotic Fitness Addict. To this minute we're unsure how we recognized him without his shirt on, or without the familiar sight of the American flag billowing behind him in those old ads (the ones where he looked older somehow than he does now, MAGICALLY). But he was toting a camera crew with a RockMeTV.com sticker on it, so we can only assume he is there to spread the word via audio-visual wizardry that you are, indeed, fully encouraged to rock him. We are also pretty sure that, if death is not an option, we'd still leave him behind in favor of Body By Jake. What can we say? Look at the Basedow pictures -- they'll haunt your dreams. Like ghouls. In Justin-Bobby berets.

Check NY Mag's Show and Talk Blog for more Fashion Week yadda yadda yadda, including the shocking development that Ashlee Simpson IS capable of taking off her stupid fedora.

Fugovich-Hawk

MILLA JOVOVICH: I love these events.

JENNY LEWIS: Yeah, I'm having a great time here in my Jovovich-Hawk sandwich, but seriously, Milla... is Carmen okay?

MILLA: Ignore her, Jenny. She always looks like she's dying.

JENNY: Aren't you afraid she'll keel over?

MILLA: Eh. It's kind of awesome that she's always at death's door because she never notices when I hog all the best of the dresses we make.

JENNY: Yeah, I meant to thank you for getting me out of my regular babydoll shifts and knee socks.

MILLA: I'm a stud.

JENNY: Although do you think maybe next time you could give me something that isn't so high-waisted? The distance between my boobs and my belly button looks like it's about two inches.

MILLA: Right. I'll get Carmen on that.

JENNY: I don't think she's even blinking. And did she wash her hair this week?

MILLA: Of course not. I figure, if people think she's about to go toes-up, they'll buy a lot of clothes out of pity.

JENNY: I think she might already be dead. She smells like Marc Anthony.

MILLA: Oh, fine. Can somebody please get Carmen some vitamins? And a hose?

CARMEN: I should've had a V-8.

The Dukes of Fuggard

You probably know April Scott from such meaningful, touching roles as Model #14, Girl in Bikini, Model, Model, Vegas Girl, or -- my personal favorite -- Runway Model. Verily, Los Angeles Fashion Week truly does attract the upper echelon of the celebrity crop. Okay, so she also took over the Jessica Simpson role in the straight-to-USA Network prequel to The Dukes of Hazzard, Dukes of Hazzard: The Beginning, and while I have not seen this program, I am QUITE sure that she is better in the part than poor J. Simp was. I mean, for serious: I've never heard a worse Southern accent on an actress and JESSICA IS FROM THE SOUTH.  Just TALK, you moron. God. But this was not meant to devolve into a diatribe against poor Simpson The Elder who -- as long as we're talking about her -- looks pretty cute as a brunette, I must say, and who has been pleasantly low key lately.

But yes. April Scott. For those of you keeping score at home, the IMDb keywords for her Dukes TV effort are: Prequel, Sequel, Buxom, Cleavage, Underwear, so I'm advising a certain portion of our reading audience to set their TiVos, and don't complain I never did nothing for you. Much as this rather unfortunate dress does nothing for Miss Scott: 

Why, it's camouflaging all her keywords!

L.A. Fugshion Week: Hayden Panettiere

Hayden Panettiere of Heroes is so cute, and that is an adorable apron she's wearing. But ... what gives, cheerleader? Did the hot, mysterious Haitian secretly pluck all memory of the concept of shirts from your brain? That seems awfully pervy of him.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Nicky Hilton

Dear Nicky Hilton,

You're in the front row at L.A. Fashion Week, and you're related to that drippy suckmaggot Paris -- she who blithely did her makeup in the middle of a Max Azria show in September -- so we shouldn't be surprised that you have a short attention span yourself.

And we were even willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that, mid-show, you were merely idly clutching your BlackBerry because you didn't have anything else to do with that hand -- perhaps Brandon Davis was on your other side, for instance, and you were trying not to catch anything via accidental contact. That's certainly completely understandable.

But then we saw another photo.

Bitch, please. Now, I'm sure you're not the only one who does this, but that doesn't make it right. Fashion shows are, like, 10 minutes long, once they get going. I know L.A. Fashion Week doesn't quite have the cachet of its New York cousin, but seriously, whatever it is couldn't wait? You couldn't be polite, having been given a prize spot by the runway, and refrain from gazing at your BlackBerry for a few minutes? What was the emergency? Had one of the items in your clothing line accidentally turned out attractive, forcing a last-second redesign? Did Paris forget how to use a zipper and need you for advice? Where are your manners, child? Surely Paris didn't borrow them; she wouldn't know what to do with them if they came with instructions.

Oh, and, er, bringing it back on topic about the clothes... actually, you pretty much look fine. WHEN YOU ARE NOT BEING RUDE.

Sheesh.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Fug 'Em Up (Style)

Blu Cantrell is the Old Faithful of fuggery, not in the sense that she is old -- she's a year younger than I am (allegedly) and therefore is a mere spring chicken about to burst into bloom. Or something  -- but because she can be counted on, like the famous geyser, to erupt into something noteworthy roughly every hour and a half. We haven't seen much of Blu lately, so this eruption was overdue. And it did not disappoint:

It's like she's gone to Los Angeles Fashion Week for the express purpose of finding a shirt to wear that very night.

L.A. Fugshion Week: The Janice Dickinson Fugging Agency

According to TMZ, my beloved Janice Dickinson has been banned from several shows at Los Angeles Fashion Week, following some shenanigans of some sort.* (Janice? Shenanigans? Shut your mouth.) While I was sort of surprised to read that Janice had actually been barred from any event -- seriously, have none of the event organizers read her books? They are hilarious. She is a national treasure. A probably drunk, definitely unpredictable trainwreck, but a treasure nevertheless -- I wasn't surprised to hear that she was in the news thanks to her LA Fashion Week behavior, as I had already seen the pictures.

This is the week that Janice demonstrated why a dress can be dangerous if you've been [ALLEGEDLY, POSSIBLY, MAYBE, PERHAPS] imbibing:

Don't do that in a dress! Especially in a wrap dress! Those are tights -- not leggings, not trousers, not jeans, not shorts. They have a visible cotton crotch. I don't need to see Miss Janice's cotton crotch.

OR her ass:

Look, at least the girl knows how to enjoy herself, and both of these dresses, on their own merits, are really cute. But this is taking the danger inherent in a wrap dress (every time I wear one, I worry that it's going to flap open and expose me to the elements) and just gamboling all over it. I wasn't aware that I had to actually say this, but KEEP YOUR DRESS DOWN OVER YOUR ASS IN PUBLIC.  Yes, even you, Janice.

*We've since heard from Janice's peeps that this rumor is not true, and thank goodness. LA Fashion Week is already kind of a snore. Banning La Dickinson would have been the nail in the coffin.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Fug DJ

I am totally a fan of Robbie Williams, and I've often wondered why he hasn't done better in the United States. He's so talented and charming and funny: the episode of Cribs where he passes off Jane Seymour's house (well, manor. Castle. Whatever) as his own is particularly brilliant. However, all that being said, I do wish he would wear a proper shirt when he leaves the house:

Because this is less Sexy Insouciant Pop Star Out On The Town and a little more Transient Out In Your Alley.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Well Played, Winnie Cooper

Okay, maybe it's not totally fair to call Danica McKellar by her Wonder Years alter-ego's name, as if she has never achieved anything else in life, but seriously, it's a compliment. Who didn't love Winnie Cooper and her pretty, pretty long hair? We all hoped she and Kevin Arnold would get it together, because -- to mix references for a second -- they were clearly each others' densities. Plus, the trivia that half the reason the characters ever had a falling-out was because Danica's growth spurt came faster than Fred Savage's and they didn't look right together is really kind of hilarious.

But then Danica McKellar decided to do something unusually ambitious: She dropped out of the public eye and went to college, and not only turned out to be some kind of math genius but actually helped prove a new theorem that now is named after her. Suck on that, Good Will Hunting. There aren't too many ways to top that, unless NASA decides to rechristen one of its shuttles "Danica," or somebody discovers a new constellation that clearly depicts her image. Me, I'd settle for having Diet Coke rename itself after me, but since "Diet Cocks" isn't really all that appealing-sounding (and yes, that is how you spell my last name, for real, and no, I was never a man) I can't see it ever happening.

At any rate, apparently Danica McKellar came from a blessed gene pool. Because aside from all that mathematical excitement, and her robust brains, she also grew up very lovely.

Normally, something about this dress would scream "lingerie" at me in an annoying, high-pitched wail, but Danica looks fantastic in it. And those shoes! I covet those shoes. I'm sure that's one of The Next 10 Commandments -- "thou shalt not covet thy fuggee's footwear" -- but, for one thing, I'm not fugging her per se, and for another, shove it. Those are fantastic. And Winnie is a knockout. Just imagine if the show were doing a reunion movie, and all the long, longing glances she and Kevin would exchange in order to make room for the pages and pages of yearning voice-over Daniel Stern would need to provide. I kind of wish it would happen, but I don't know if I could really cope with it emotionally because I burst into tears during the finale when it was revealed that Dan Lauria's Mr. Arnold died soon thereafter -- his gruff but lovable character, flaws and all, was the one that wrenched my heart the most whenever his kids got all uppity with him, and it always made me want to go give my dad a huge hug.

Not that this has anything to do with how hot Ms. Cooper-McKellar turned out to be. I'm just saying, I'm a giant softie, and also, I just checked and thank GOD, Dan Lauria himself is still alive. And I want her shoes.

The end.

L.A. Fugshion Week: Maria Fugita Alonso

Why is Maria Conchita Alonso on the floor?

Her dress might be sort of cute, if she weren't busy obscuring it by genuflecting to the photographers at L.A. Fashion Week. Perhaps she's trying to prove the girls are legit, or perhaps she's suggestively trying to see just how deeply one dandy lensman's zoom can penetrate. Either way... we really just wish she'd get up, because it seems a bit needy and sad, and also, we're sure whichever random starlet she borrowed the knee pads from could really use them back.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 8, The Final Frontier

And we're back! We had a last bit of fun at Tommy Hilfiger -- a show we didn't expect to pan out into anything, but which ended up yielding a semi-fresh crop of people that did not include Alice Cooper, unfortunately -- and did a wrap-up post with some bits and pieces that didn't make it into the other daily stuff, and then we hopped a plane and flew back to warmer climes.

So what did Los Angeles do to welcome us back? Why, it played host to a 12-hour cold, rainy front, with the clouds settling in almost exactly as our flight landed. Granted, it was a brief moment of misery, but we can't ignore the timing -- we're trying not to be offended by that, L.A., but you are on VERY THIN ICE for that little piece of potential symbolism.

With thanks to the folks from New York magazine's online crew, we're now back to our regularly scheduled fuggings.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 7

The celebrities are continuing to play hide and no-seek, except for the same old faces. We wish we had great first-hand stories of catching Britney in the bathroom hoovering up something illicit, but alas, we haven't seen anything much more noteworthy than Anna Wintour acting blase when Diane von Furstenberg crouched by her seat to chat.

• Jeffrey Sebelia loves Vera Wang.
• Here's hoping Miss J. really does come out with an album; until then, we'll have to keep ourselves warm with memories of him instructing reporters at Badgley Mischka to call the boring blonde singer next to him a muse.
• Man falls six feet out of seat at Y-3 show; people care more about French soccer star.
• Oh, Amber Tamblyn. You can't have it both ways -- either you attend the shows you're fortunate enough to be invited to (like Anna Sui, among a bunch of others), or you deride them as bullshit. Grow up.

New York Fugshion Week: Day 6

We've seen Rachel Zoe around enough that we're pretty sure she's going to start recognizing us, figure out who we are, and have us killed and/or skinned for our impudence. Aside from fearing for our lives and a few really maddening incidents involving subway trains deciding not to run, we're plugging along and heading into the home stretch.

• Rachel Weisz looked super hot at Narciso Rodriguez; we didn't mention it in the piece, but according to the photo sources, the scraggly orange-turtlenecked man with her was apparently her husband, Darren Aronofsky, looking a bit more like a faintly bloated McConaughey than we thought he did. Huh.
• Paris Hilton was allegedly too hung over to show up at Heatherette; conversely, the experience of trying to get into that show was so maddening AGAIN that it drove us to drink.
• Finally, we have a reason to write about the other Fergie.
• A runway show at a venue with a floor made of bathroom scales? Yep: Too good to be true.
• Last year Posh was all for Proenza; sadly, this year, the show lacked Spice. (Har, har. Yes, I am ashamed of what I've become, thank you.)

New York Fugshion Week: Day 5

After two days of freezing temperatures, we realized two things: We are much tougher than we thought, and wearing three pairs of socks at once is really not all that uncomfortable.

We miss updating and are eager to get back to whatever Oksana Baiul is barely wearing, but thanks for your patience. Here's a couple links, just in case any of you still think we're lying about our whereabouts and are actually sunning ourselves in Tahiti.

• Rev. Run sat back and let Betsey Johnson preach fashion to him.
• What's that on your ankle, Michelle Rodriguez? Gotten into some trouble lately?
• Max Azria had the balls to send skinny girls down the runway to a song about how big girls are beautiful. Amusingly wry, or just asshattish?

New York Fugshion Week, Day 4

When Accuweather.com told us that we'd be enjoying the winter-fresh breath of an arctic blast - excuse me, ARCTIC BLAST -- on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, we chuckled a little and assumed the forecast was just going to be wrong. I mean, they're always wrong, right?

Wrong. The weather reports promised increasing misery and subzero windchill, and boy, did New York deliver. We are currently planning to write a book entitled Fahrenheit Minus-10, so named for the temperature at which our exposed skin starts to turn pink, wither away, and fall off into the lap of Anna Wintour as we scurry past her in the tents.

However, we lived. So far, anyway. And we made it to a few more shows.  Here's the latest:

• J.C. Chasez blows Jill Stuart up with his love
• Kim Cattrall was at Carolina Herrera, looking much healthier than when she was Samantha.
• Handbag designer Lulu Guinness waited with the plebes at Matthew Williamson.

New York Fugshion Week, Days 1-3

Fashion Week has been frustratingly devoid of clusters of interesting celebrities -- well, at the shows we've been to, anyway. So we've been reduced to discussing the follicular issues of Trump offspring.

JESSICA: Who's that guy over there? The press is kind of into him. He's handlng it well, too.

HEATHER: I can't tell. He has really weird hair, though. He looks kind of like an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Oh, it's a Trump.

HEATHER: So, definitely an oily chipster.

JESSICA: Aha, yeah, the girl he's with is Vanessa Trump -- she's married to Donald, Jr.

HEATHER: That must be who the dude is, then. Wow. I guess that right there refutes any argument that Donald Trump's hair is fake.

JESSICA: Seriously. He's clearly passing that mess down the line.

HEATHER: Unquestionably a Trumpian eruption.

JESSICA: Never say that again.

The Trump in question turned out to be Eric, brother-in-law to Vanessa, who kept her company at the BCBG presentation and was -- to give credit where credit is due -- very cheerful throughout the whole dog-and-pony show of getting your photo taken, shaking hands with socialites you probably don't really care about, and watching a bunch of women's clothes come down the catwalk.

Other than that, though, it's been lots of Mary-Lynn Rajskub of 24, with a healthy dose of Kelly Rowland, and a tragic missed Britney sighting at Baby Phat. Until we can update regularly, come visit us at the New York magazine blog via the Show & Talk page or the links below.

• Alicia Keys Is Bored With Tracy Reese, Life: Sunday, Feb. 4
• No, we weren't kidding -- they were actual trash bags on models at Alexandre Herchkovitch.
• Damn you, Britney, for escaping us at Baby Phat.
• Nobody loves heart disease, but that doesn't mean we had to love the Heart Truth Red Dress Collection show, although Billie Jean King waltzing down the runway to "Billie Jean" was pretty outstanding. Almost as good as Katharine McPhee nearly colliding with Danica Patrick at the top of the runway, which caused organizers to change the flow of the celeb models' exits.
• Fashion Week thinks we're fat. Seriously.
• Liked Baby Phat? Then you'll love the fall efforts from Rock & Republic; needless to say it terrified us.
• When the all-musical hour of 24 comes out -- picture it: terrorists unleash some gas that causes Los Angelenos to break into song and dance numbers at inopportune times -- Chloe will be favoring us with clog dancing.

New York Fugshion Week: Inner Monologues

JAIME KING: Remember when I used to date Kid Rock, and I was a clammy-looking kid who couldn't focus her eyes? Man, I have totally turned it around.

ERIKA CHRISTENSEN: I am totally going to smack this Rossum kid next to me. Seriously, I can't even look at her, in her little poofy white thing and all that face paint. My OC-6 would audit the HELL out of her snooty ass.

EMMY ROSSUM: If I can just sit here and look as human as possible, nobody will notice that I'm plugged into an outlet underneath my chair.

ERIKA: That's right, White Wedding, you sit there in your sheath and fan your pancaked skin. Don't worry about anything. Certainly not THESE BABIES right here -- I'm SURE nobody is staring at how huge they look in this dress. Heh-heh. Drink it in, photogs. Like sands through my hourglass, so are the days of your lives. Praise Xenu for a supple chest, and not a case of the ice princess's raging Dutch Elm Disease. I've eaten nails less brittle.

JAIME: ... KID ROCK, people. We didn't even wash our hair. NOBODY thought I was going to bounce back from that.

EMMY: Thank God for these frumpy white dresses -- they keep my motherboard cool and nobody can see my wiring. Now, what is it that real girls do, again? Fan themselves? Ignore their own kind? Wait, was I supposed to change my facial expression at some point in the last six months? ... Shoot. I think I need a software upgrade.

Cynthia Fugley

The madness will never stop if the people who actually MAKE the clothes don't snap out of it:

Even she looks sort of ashamed of herself. In fairness, I don't know if any of what she's wearing was actually made by Cynthia herself, but still. Wearing it is implied consent. And nobody should consent to a bra-style top that commits that heinous a crime against a bosom and a body. Even if she actually is pregnant, which is how it looks, the black swatches where her chest should be are made for someone with at least one cupful more than she's pouring.

I bet if she'd eaten any carbs at all in the last six months, she'd have had the energy to shop for something else -- something that didn't require leather leggings and which didn't make her look decrepit and drained. I don't dislike her, but this? This is a cry for help. Help, and starches.

Fug Quiz II

Donna Karan's dress is:

a) Part of her new couture line, "Brown Baggin'," which will come with purses shaped like bottles of Colt .45

b) An ode to her personal hero, the one who represents who we all are inside: Mr. Snuffleupagus.

c) A fourth-grade class's art project

d) UPS's latest marketing campaign

e) What the bridesmaids will wear when Courtney Peldon gets hitched.

I do love the mysteries of a designer's own closet.

50 First Fuglies

Um, Drew? Hey! Hi! How are you? Enjoying Fashion Week? Me too. Um, can we talk? Great, great. Um, how should I put this?

Look, you are so cute. You seem really fun and nice and I think you have an adorable little body. But, and I know it's Fashion Week and people get a little avant garde, but...tights are not the same thing as pants. They're just not. And I'm pretty sure you're wearing a shirt as a...dress? Is that what you're doing? I'm kind of not sure.  It's kind of not working. I think I have some jeans in the car! Do you want to borrow them? You can totally borrow them.

Because the thing is, I know you can look totally fab! See, look yourself earlier this week:

Fierce! Fierce and hot! So maybe later, when you're getting ready to go out again, you should hold the latter look -- fierce and hot! -- in your mind, instead of the former. Which was, I really hate to remind you, but it's for your own good, I promise, sort of, um...pantless and bizarre.

Okay! Loved you in Firestarter. Really!

New York Fugshion Week 2005: Candace Bushnell

Candace Bushnell, there is but one woman who can wear a fur turban and get away with it. That woman is Joan Collins. You, Candace Bushnell, are no Joan Collins.

PS: If it's cold enough for a fur turban and a granny sweater, it's too cold for peep-toe shoes. Conversely, if you want to bust out the spring footwear, don't make up for the loss of body heat by dressing like an extra from Julie of the Wolves. You just look confused.

PPS: We're no longer obligated to match our bag and our shoes, as you are clearly aware. You may not have heard, however, that we were never obligated to match our bag to our hat, ESPECIALLY IF THE HAT IN QUESTION IS FUR.

PPS: As a favor to you, we're not going to mention the pants. But, seriously? Brocade? Nyet.

Go Fugg Yourself

We've raged against the Regina Boot, and we're generally opposed to the reckless deployment of Ugg Boots; now, thanks to a generous and brave reader, Go Fug Yourself is pleased to share with you a boot horror that might have been, but mercifully never came to pass.

We present to you the Teva-Ugg hybrid:

Because we so desperately needed an athletic sandal for winter, this person mixed the clunky, chock-full-o-fur style you've come to revile in the Ugg boot, coupled with the rubbery sole and ugly foot straps from the world's most overrated outdoorsy shoe. [The entire concept of the "athletic sandal" is something we here at Go Fug Yourself find awesomely fugly, but that's a fug for a different day.]

We can imagine the designer sitting back with a satisfied sigh, wiping a way a tear of pride as he/she cooed, "Finally, my Ugg boots can go camping." Yes, finally, furry boots are sporty! Finally, Paris Hilton can go canoeing without sacrificing her sense of style! Finally, Cameron Diaz can head to the beach for some surfing and feel justified doing it in winter footwear! And if a Teva miniskirt would hurry up hit the market, then finally we could all hike in star style!

Evidently a few prototypes were released into the wild, but the boot was never mass-produced or officially sold. And I think we're all alternately grateful and crushed that the Teva-Ugg -- Tugg? Uggva? -- will never know the clammy foot-sweat of a morning-after Lohan. Grateful because there are enough fugly winter boots proliferating in warm climes, and crushed because, well, guessing which starlet would be the first to buy four pairs in custom colors -- or, better, to sponsor a custom-designed version for sale on eBay to benefit Project Foot Odor or something -- would have been a hell of a betting pool.

Unidentified Fugging Object

The following rather spectral vision of fug allegedly comes from a Cortana runway show in Barcelona, although conspiracy theorists may speculate that it's a government photo taken at a UFO crash site somewhere in the Las Vegas desert:

It's translucent, it covers everything, it's not clingy... You know, I think we might finally have found a frock that would flatter Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Fug Night

Okay, who let Lil' Kim design a prom dress?

This is, apparently, an actual dress, made by a Texas company that has advertised it successfully in teen magazines like YM and Seventeen. And the model is not, apparently, wearing it backwards.

Now, I would maybe expect to see something like this on The O.C., just because if any show is likely to have a complete break with fashion reality, that is the one. But ... really? This guy has actually sold some of these. If I had come down the stairs in that thing, my father would have locked me inside the house, burned all my clothes, and replaced them with billowing muumuus -- if he was able to retain hold of his consciousness.

What is wrong with people? It's a school dance. Do you really want your geometry teacher to know the exact diameter of your breasts? Are you really that interested in rendering your English teacher speechless, or perhaps reducing him/her to speaking in tongues? Are you this hell-bent on becoming a stripper?

Sweet God. To quote my esteemed colleague Jessica, "I need to lie down."

Sex and the Fugly

The woman who gave us Sarah Jessica Parker in knickers, newsboy caps and short shorts with knee socks looks simply divine at a recent event.

The visible gaping belly button? Adorable! The leather bra? So appropriate. The fedora? Delicious. The... is she wearing gloves? She must be. Delectable. The skirt -- last seen covering a light bulb in a whorehouse? Shiny!

My mother taught me that, after a certain age, one must give up the trappings of one's youth, so as not to look like mutton dressed as lamb, as they say. At this point, Patricia Field is looking like beef jerky dressed as veal, if you'll pardon the stretched metaphor.

Nine Fug

For months now, I have had a shoe nemesis, an enemy in the ranks of otherwise loyal and lovely footwear. It befouled displays and yet completely eluded me whenever I embarked upon a quest to locate its picture, for use in this space. It was as if the shoes were taunting me.

I became feverish in my quest. I Googled the style name. I would seek them out at department stores and boutiques, specifically to stand there and fume at their simple fuggery. And I would show people whenever I could, so they would know that the enemy has a toe strap and a 2 1/4-inch heel. In short, it became personal. Inexplicably personal.

Then suddenly, miraculously, the sandals appeared on the Nine West Web site. My nemesis has been digitally captured, for display all around the world. And so I present to you one of the ugliest pairs of shoes, in my very subjective opinion, that I've seen in a long time:

Do not let this innocent photograph fool you: In person, they are much scarier. The pink is not this bright and summery, but has a dull, stale lavender hue to it. When I first saw them at Bloomingdale's, I stopped and studied them. I tugged at the stretchy fabric. I frowned and pursed my lips, unsure exactly what Nine West was trying to do. So I called my roommate over to get a second opinion.

She recoiled a little. "Maybe they look better on," she coughed uneasily.

And so I put the lilac monster on my foot, and lo, they look worse on a foot than they do on a table.

Also, do not let the sale price tempt you: These shoes will fug up the feet of you and everyone that you care about, if you just give them a chance. Stay away. Far away.

Fugshion Design

I've never been a bigger advocate of granny panties than I am today.

The whole emsemble on the woman on the right has a distinct and alarming "Empress's New Clothes" vibe to it, where the woman mugs and poses as if nothing is wrong, while people (see: woman in the background) watch in quiet disbelief and think, "I wish I could look away from this person's buttocks, but as they are hanging out in plain view under a filmy skirt, I can't really help it and can feel myself growing stupider by the second."

The kicker? This woman, Jemima French (not to be confused with Jemima Khan, the socialite dating Hugh Grant, who mostly only shows off her knickers in the form of a bikini she is wearing while lounging on a yacht and making out with him), is -- or at least tells photographers she is -- a fashion designer. But if this outfit is any indication, Ms. French is probably not a very good fashion designer. Indeed, she might be a very stoned fashion designer. As if there weren't enough problems with a translucent skirt, a gauzy top, black lace undershorts and a garter belt, she paired the aforementioned Lingerie Of The Undead with the frumpiest, clunkiest pump on the planet.

Run, Sadie Frost. Release that woman and run.

New York Fugshion Week: Beware!

New York Fashion Week Fever strikes again. NYFWF is a rare, serious disease that affects mostly women between the ages of 22 and 35. Symptoms include: dressing like Florence Henderson in The Brady Bunch, if there was an episode of The Brady Bunch in which Carol Brady fell into a deep, deep depression and started drinking during the day, leading to drunk shopping and even drunker hair-styling [see subject above, who has a severe case of Bradyism]; delusions and hallucinations; the inability to tell if an outfit is attractive or if it makes you look like your Mom, circa 1971, especially if your Mom was on a serious diet of Quaaludes in 1971; no appetite, leading to emaciation [this symptom not visible in the subject pictured above. Please see: Wintour, Anna; Lauder, Erin; Grubman, Lizzie; any Von Furstenberg you can nab]; a pathological and crippling fear of mirrors and, correspondingly, an avoidance of one's own reflection. Treatment is severe and often requires stay in a rehabilitation center, where the afflicted is: forced to try on clothing that actually fits; fed three meals a day, two of which include carbs; and beaten with a plastic bag full of colored L'Eggs pantyhose [as pictured above on subject's legs] until he or she agrees that the only legwear options that are really acceptable in this day and age are the bare leg or the opaque tight.

Be on the lookout for symptoms of NYFWF in yourself. If you are a woman -- or, more rarely, a man -- interested in fashion, you are at risk. You may find yourself seriously considering buying a pair of Mukluks. You might hear yourself saying, "That Chloe Sevigny looks adorable!" You might decide to wear a pair of gold lame hotpants to the office. If any of these symptoms occur, remove yourself from New York Fashion Week immediately and seek treatment.

New York Fugshion Week: Vincent Gallo

Just in case you were concerned that Vincent Gallo had, say, slipped in the bathroom and conked his head and come to, hours later, with the intense desire to take a shower, get a haircut, shave, invest in some Visine, and put on a clean, unwrinkled shirt that doesn't make him look like a creepy drifter hellbent on skinning you and using your pelt as a poncho:

That hasn't happened.

New York Fugshion Week: Lil' Kim

Ever wondered what a bottle of Pepto Bismol would look like if it had even less subtlety, and mated with an insect of some kind?

New York Fugshion Week: Three Cheers for Consumption

Are you an olden-days-style romantic? Are you looking for the kind of passion a girl only feels on her deathbed? And are you aching for pledges of eternal love from a devoted hottie, without the matching chronic wasting disease?

Then this look, fresh from the face of a model at Fashion Week, is tailor-made for you. It's called Consumption:

The first step is ringing the eyes with the kinds of pinks and beiges that give them an overtired, sickly, naturally red-rimmed appearance -- as if they've been rubbed or delicately wept into chapped, puffy splendor. The effect will make your irises look ever-so-slightly fevered, which is the second crucial element. Thirdly, use your natural oils in conjunction with iridescent makeup to achieve a perfectly moist sheen on your face, the better to replicate the cold, cold sweat of impending death. And the final step: With a coy smile on your face that hints at the pain through which you're soldiering, pull your hair off your face -- but leave a few escaped tendrils that will appear to have burst forth during a fainting spell.

Voila! You too can be consumptive! Someone will sweep you into his or her arms in no time and cradle you with tender professions of ceaseless devotion as he/she waits for you to expire.

New York Fugshion Week: Jennifer Jason Leigh

I have some issues with Jennifer Jason Leigh. Sometimes, I think she's an extremely good actress, but most of the time, especially now, she seems too busy "Acting" to actually act. Kind of like Sean Penn. Call it the Curse of Ridgemont High.

I also have some issues with the outfit she wore to the Imitation of Christ show this fugshion week. On one hand: Imitation of Christ? The official provider of uniforms for the Fug Army. Any line primarily represented by the Queen of All Fug, Chloe Sevigny, can't help but be, well, kinda hideous. So, with that in mind, I guess it makes sense that one would chose to wear something unfortunate to celebrate a line that embraces the Fugly like an alcoholic clutching a Stoli bottle at happy hour.

On the other hand:

Jennifer? [May I call you Jennifer?] Annie Hall was like fifty years ago. And the only person who can get away with dressing like Annie Hall is Annie Hall. At least Diane Keaton knows how to properly wear a tie. You, on the other hand, look like a homeless Charlie Chaplin. Are you going to use that copy of Fashion Week Daily as a blanket later? Are you going to start yelling at people in the street? Do you plan on beating someone with your hat? Is Crazy Homeless Lady Chic the new black? Because I think I missed that memo.

Still, your skin looks great.

New York Fugshion Week: Chloe Sevigny

Dear Chloe "Fuck Your Umlaut" Sevigny,

Why so blue?

When you woke up this morning and realized that the oversized white sunglasses your mom bought for you at Raging Waters back in 1983 still fit your big fat head, didn't you smile? When you got out of the shower and decided just to let your hair do its own thing -- much as I do on days when I have a busy schedule of the stomach flu ahead of me -- didn't you chuckle to yourself, pleased with your own efficiency? When you decided to wear that dress that Half Pint wore in the episode of Little House on Prairie where Mary burns down the barn and wakes up all blind, weren't you filled with glee at the thought of your own unbearably ironic hipster charm? When you stole that umbrella from your grandma, didn't you laugh at the thought of the old woman stuck in the rain without it? When you then nabbed her orthopedic shoes and outfitted them with heels made of corks from the discarded bottles of Two Buck Chuck littering your bedroom, weren't you thrilled with your own ingenuity? Yes? Then why do you look so sad?

Does it have something to do with Vincent Gallo's wang?

New York Fugshion Week: Anna Wintour

Anna Wintour is the top Vogue editrix. So you'd expect Anna Wintour, being as she works at a fashion magazine --and because she's the titular Satan in The Devil Wears Prada -- to dress very well. But you would apparently be wrong.

It seems Ms. Wintour has taken a job at Fogue (a.k.a. Fugly Vogue), and is trying to dress the part by wearing no fewer than three garments on her upper body alone: A t-shirt, a thin and messy black cardigan, and some sort of nylon half-sleeved jacket, all of which are different lengths and styles. Her skirt looks like she accidentally brushed up against some wet graffiti. She is giving off the impression that being fashionable and trendy equals putting on as many things from your closet as you can find, all at once.

Apparently the sunglasses are her trademark. Okay. Maybe their presence will dupe people into thinking everything is normal with this outfit, nothing to see here, fug along...

Hoboeroticism: In; Good Taste: Out

From the runways of Paris's fashion week comes this little gem from John Galliano:

I think I'm speechless. This is what Abe Lincoln would look like if he swallowed Daniel Boone and then went on a three-week opium bender.

Has John Galliano lost his mind? I think he has lost his mind. Down a manhole.