NYFug.com: The Fug Awards: The Best and Worst of the Costume Institute Gala

Face it: An event isn't really an event unless someone is handing out awards. So you're welcome, Met Ball. You're welcome. Sure, the awards we're handing out this week on NY Mag.com are totally facetious, but aren't those the most fun? For example:

"Best Befuddlement: If life were The Hills, Maggie Gyllenhaal's dress would be the Justin Bobby to our Audrina: Even though it felt wrong, we kept going back for more."

Read more -- including who is in the Least Alluring Rut, who presented the Best Application for AARP Membership, and  who put her Worst Face Forward -- over in the cozy, loving confines of NY Mag.com.

NYFug.com: Everyone, Please Chill About Miley

So, despite our fears that we're prematurely crotchety, it turns out we're not changing our byline to "The Fug Crones" just yet. (Emphasis on YET.) While everyone else in the world seems to be freaking out about spying Miley Cyrus's bared back on the cover of Vanity Fair, we're left scratching our heads and yawning and wishing everyone would just relax, already. For one thing, this is totally a teen-dream rite of passage --I mean, Britney wrote a whole SONG about being not a girl, not yet a woman, AND wore her panties on Rolling Stone -- but for another, compared with what's come before Miley, is this picture really so scandalous?

A simple backless portrait taken in the presence of her parents or minders by a respected female photographer — without a single nip slip or sultry licked lip in sight — is practically a Puritanical achievement [by Young Hollywood standards]. Plus, Miley herself isn't pregnant, smoking crack, tattooing the name of an unwashed rock-star boyfriend on her boob, or licking bananas at a lad-mag-sponsored shindig. The public freak-out just doesn't fit the crime.

If you want to read our full defense of Miley, then browse on over to the full article: "Calm Down, Everyone: Miley's Just Following The Script."

 

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And we're back! Hope you all had an awesome week, full of smiting your enemies, unexpected gifts, and brownies.  We're slowly getting back up to speed -- honestly, for all we know,  Britney might have run off with Vladimir Putin in our absence, though we  imagine someone would have texted us -- but you can catch up with our latest NY Mag.com piece, in which we once more look to the "fashion" of The Hills:

" Say what you will about Lauren Conrad's collection — we called it tragique — but at least she studies fashion; when Heidi attended FIT (tellingly, for a day, before quitting), it was to learn about PR, making Heidiwood the equivalent of having once typed up a recipe and auditioning for Top Chef. Naturally, we had to investigate — the kind of up-close and terrifying recon that can only come from trying Heidi’s wares on our brave, implant-free selves."

Learn exactly how bad it was here.  You guys, we're talking one-inch inseams. FOR REAL.

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Admit it: you REALLY want to check out the newly-updated versions of the Sweet Valley High books. We hear you. Which is why we ran out as soon as they were released and gobbled them up like fries at the Dairi Burger (now called "Casa del Sol," like, whatever. It's always the Dairi Burger to US), and reported back for NY Mag. Turns out all the terrible, terrible 80s clothes have gone the way of 1BRUCE1, which is to say: into ancient history. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Seriously, we really miss 1BRUCE1). Also:

"Back in the day, falsely accused student-romancer Ms. Dalton "never looked prettier" than when chaperoning a dance in her long velvet skirt, an old-fashioned blouse with "lots of ruffles and tucks," and a fake rose pinned over one ear. To avoid modern-day confusion that she is either Amish or a refugee from Anne of Green Gables, she now wears an eggplant sheath. What, no leggings?"

Find out which other iconic SVH wardrobe choices have been left in the dust, along with those five pounds they shaved off the twins,  at NY Mag.com.

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Essentially, while we truly do love Lady Bobbington and her reign of terror at Vogue, we sort of hate the annual "Shape" issue. It's so phony:

"Despite presumably good intentions, the shape issue feels more like Vogue trying to bum a ride on a politically correct bandwagon, and our girl A-Dubs is a particularly lousy hitchhiker. Her editor’s letter boldly blames designers for using scrawny models to present “a non-vivacious, homogenous ideal,” then steps all over that, in its attempt to homogenize zaftig designers Kate and Laura Mulleavy of Rodarte by offering them a free four-month diet and exercise plan."

Oh, Anna. If you're coming for the designers now, are the bloggers NEXT? YOU WILL TEAR THE POTATO CHIPS FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS! More of the same here.

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Reedy, seedy Kate Moss is still at it, designing clothes for British retailer Topshop, and through the mercy of the Interwebs we can pore over the new pieces in her line that will also be available stateside at Barneys. As far as we can tell, it's going to be great... if you like really ugly shirts:

Standout disasters in that vein include a blue “star print blouse” that we’re pretty sure Bea Arthur once wore on Maude, and a silk monochrome mess called a “clown frill long-sleeved top,” which is guaranteed to suck in all those ladies who’ve long dreamed of a gig making balloon animals at the Met Costume Institute Ball.

If you want to see a handful of pictures and read the rest of our take on Kate's continued foray into designing, check out the full article, "Dear Kate: Those Who Do Not Learn From A Topshop Line..."

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Last night, Heather and I went to Lauren Conrad's fashion show at Los Angeles Fashion Week. We truly went into the tents expecting the clothes to be cute. You know, in the way where we'd buy one of the dresses, and then people would be all, "that is cute!" and we'd sort of whisper, "I know! It's Lauren Conrad," and then the other person would be all "REALLY? No kidding!" and we'd be all, "I know! Who knew?" and then they'd say, "I kind of like her," and we'd be like, "I know, me too." And then we'd have drinks.

Sadly, it was not to be, as we share with the readers of NYMag.com, and, of course, with you:

Let’s just say…there were berets involved, and, overall, the collection was sadly kind of tragique.

Oh, Lauren. First you have all that drama with Heidi and now this. Will you EVER WIN?

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It's always a sad day when you wake up and realize....there is no more Project Runway to be had. Not for God knows how long. How are you supposed to deal with that? American Idol does not feature a gorgeously-banged German supermodel, no matter what Paula claims. On the other hand, the finale last night might have been maybe a little....well, a wee bit dull. In the second of this week's one-two punch for NY Mag.com, we muse that:

It might have worked if Chris March had donned a mask and made a second collection in the basement of Parsons and then haunted Bryant Park. And kidnapped Posh.

I think you'll agree we have a point.  We know you're hungover from last night's pitcher of Tim Gunn-tinis, but once you wipe the sleep from your eyes and feel human again,  read the rest of our take on the Project Runway finale on The Cut.

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Thank the sweet heavens above that we have finally reached the glamorous dawn of  Project Runway Finale Day. In keeping with glorious tradition (er, sort of; we've done this once before), Heather and I set odds on the winner for NY Mag.com:

Jillian Lewis: 25-1. Jillian is certainly talented, but the problem with her collection is the same problem we had with her as a contestant: SNORE. She’s possibly the first robot ever to make it on to a competitive reality show.

See what else we had to say about that little cyborg, and her competitors Rami and Christian on NYMag.com's The Cut.

Thank Fugging God, It's The Oscars

To celebrate the fact that the Night of a Thousand Stars is coming to us as originally scheduled, we'll be live-blogging the red-carpet shenanigans for New York's Web site, starting when the festivities do at 6 p.m. Eastern time and continuing right up until they shove the last desperate, gowned celebrity inside for the ceremony.

If you want to read along with us, this link will -- at the appointed time -- take you to us, and of course on Monday we'll have our usual coverage right here on GFY. We are so excited we might plow through TWO wheels of Brie.

And at least one of these.

Chris Gorham not included. Tragically.

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We're all for Miss Tyra torturing a fresh crop of girls every cycle on Top Model, but some glories need to be experienced twice. Like Jade, that batshit leftover lady who assured us that elephants are in the dinosaur family, or Questionably Blind Amanda. So we put together a list of twelve girls we'd love to see face off in an All-Star season. Essentially, if you ever wanted to hear Elyse give a confessional about Jade, this could make that dream come beautifully, condescendingly, eloquently true.

Jade, Cycle 6: Too old to compete, too crazy to ignore: Jade is the cream of this show’s deluded crop. Remember her in-house rampage with panties on her head? The beat poetry? That dragalicious Cover Girl ad? The hideous aging-poodle-style makeover with shockingly fierce pictures? Jade once told housemate Furonda, “One day I’m going to write a book, and you should read it, because you might learn something.” Please, God, if ANTM won’t have her back, just publish that book.

To check out the other eleven we picked, check out "Our ANTM All-Star Dream Team" on NYMag.com's The Cut.

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We all know Tom Brady is hot. No, it's true. It's kind of unavoidable. But he's not the only quarterback playing in the Super Bowl this weekend -- football rules inconveniently dictate that the other team must put one under center as well -- and thus it's not fair that Tommy Boy snags all the attention. So, as both sports fans and voyeurs of attractive gentlemen, we turned our attention to Eli Manning vs. Tom Brady to see which one has the edge in all areas. Including where those spandex pants are concerned.

TABLOID APPEAL: Tom Brady has been all over the rags this year, thanks to his baby-mama drama with Bridget Moynahan and his ensuing photo-friendly relationship with Gisele. Whereas we only know from Wikipedia that Eli Manning is engaged; "Giants QB Really Digs College Sweetheart" probably won't move any magazines unless he knocks her up with some baby joy. At Tom Brady's house.

If you'd care to see how these boys stack up in other ways, check out "The Fug Girls: But Who Do You Take Home To Mama AFTER The Super Bowl?"

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We're not sure how the folks behind the Razzies do it, but somehow, they manage to distill a whole year of Hollywood hackery into just a few nominees for its awards celebrating the very worst in film. And since the one thing we haven't missed about this somewhat aborted awards season is the industry's aura of self-congratulation, we couldn't help but weigh in as to who we think will walk away with what is arguably the statuette in this town most richly deserved by its winner than any other. 

Worst Supporting Actor Nominees: Orlando Bloom, Kevin James, Eddie Murphy, Rob Schneider, Jon Voight.

Not to ruin his moment, but we dispute Orlando's inclusion: He looked smoking hot in Yet More Pirates of the Caribbean, and that's truly the most supportive an actor can be. Chuck & Larry's problems go way beyond poor Kevin James, and, let's face it, there's no way Rob Schneider was any worse in that than he is in anything else. That leaves Jon Voight in Bratz (oy) and Eddie Murphy as Mr. Wong in Norbit, another of those parts he hogs because he's a whore for latex makeup. But it's Voight's Razzie to lose, if only because seeing his name next to the word "bratz" makes us want to crawl back into the womb.

If you're in the mood to see what we make of the other acting nominees, click here to read the rest of the piece.

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Crazy Tom Cruise is back in the news, thanks to what is allegedly a Scientology indoctrination video from 2004 that got yanked off You Tube and then reposted by Defamer (and is now the subject of a copyright-infringement lawsuit of some kind; we're not sure, as we're currently trying to bleach most of the video from our brains so we're too busy to look it up). Seriously, it's 9 minutes of creepy. Some of which might be the editing, in how it smashes together his statements without giving the preceding question, but most of it is from Cruise's wicked cocktail of intensity, oddball charisma, deranged cackling, and directionless rambling.

We wrote a bit about it for New York's web site this week.

Obviously, the world will never embrace Tom Cruise as the same dreamboat from the Top Gun poster tacked above our beds in junior high. That guy didn’t jump on Oprah’s couch, or engage Matt Lauer in a war of words about whose knowledge of psychiatry was more encyclopedic. He was not, at least publicly, the guffawing nutjob we see on this latest Scientology leak. His sweaty, intense proclamations of infatuation with meek little Katie Holmes officially turned our girlhood crush into someone we feared encountering in a dark furniture store (or a shrink’s office). Next time we play MASH, Tom Cruise is so totally off the “husband” list.

There is always a "but," though -- if you're so inclined, click through to "Tom Cruise: Crazy Like A Fugging Fox?" to see what we had to say about whether Andrew Morton's sure-to-be-bestselling, sadly-n0t-all-that-muckraking, still-totally-unauthorized biography might help or hurt the Cruise camp.

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As everyone reading this blog surely knows, Sunday was originally Golden Globes day -- a carbs-fueled couch-a-thon in honor of that most glorious and drunken of awards shows, where the honorees are more likely than not to accept their statuette through a delicious red-wine haze and may or may not choose to adjust their push-up bras in front of everyone. With the show scuttled due to the strike, we couldn't help but use this week's New York Fugging City column to wonder OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CLOTHES?!?!?!!?!!?!?!?!?!!!!!

"Usually, this is the time when we’re stocking up on Ruffles and dip in preparation for an evening on the couch, wondering if Cate Blanchett will wear Armani (possibly) or something metallic (probably) and laying bets on whether Nicole Kidman’s inevitable Balenciaga will successfully make her look less waxen (doubtful). But this year, no ceremony means no fashion parade: no hits, no misses, no Marchesa. Fine, the sacrifice is all in the name of union labor and whatnot — but will no one think of the outfits?"

Check out the rest, if you're so inclined, here.

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Everybody loves a makeover. Even the terrible ones on America's Next Top Model. There are few things as satisfying for celebrity voyeurs -- or Biggest Loser addicts -- as a good before-and-after shot to show how far someone's come. Hey, it worked for Katie Holmes last year, right? Nobody even TALKS about Teaching Mrs. Tingle any more (not that we've forgotten about it, KATIE and HELEN MIRREN -- we have memories like elephants). All anyone wants to discuss is what she's wearing and whether the haircut works.

So this week in our "New York Fugging City" column, we suggest stars who could use a little extra style mojo to propel them through 2008:

"It says something about Jessica Simpson that we can’t remember anything about her wardrobe except that it’s generally too small for her. If anyone needs the restorative power of some flattering new outfits, it’s a woman whose last two movies were both deemed too heinous for wide release."

Check out the rest here: "The Fug Girls' Official Celebrity-Style Mandates For 2008."