Oscar Fug Carpet: There Will Be Fug

REBECCA MILLER: Darling, you look so dapper.

DANIEL DAY-LEWIS: Thanks, sweetness. I thought it was about time; I'm tired of lumberjack plaid. You look gorgeous, too, of course.

REBECCA: We're so in love.

DANIEL: Although...

REBECCA: Wait, what? I never said anything before about the plaid or those silly earrings, and now you're giving me an "although"?

DANIEL: It's just... you're marvelous, but the dress is a bit Death Of An Accessories Salesman.

REBECCA: Daniel, if you want to throw my father's work in my face, he ALSO wrote a radio play called The Pussycat and The Plumber Who Was A Man, which is what we USUALLY look like when we leave the house. Well, minus the cat. But you get my point.

DANIEL: No, I...

REBECCA: Maybe I wanted a turn being the wacky one. Did you ever think of that?

DANIEL: All I'm saying is, what if  someone comes up and tries to use the door-knocker on your breasts? Then it's all "knockers" puns, all the time, AND I'll have to punch someone. And I'm just not that guy.

REBECCA: No. You far prefer to be wearing your wood-cutting loafers than starting fights.

DANIEL: At least I might have made these myself.

REBECCA: Well, maybe I made this, too. You don't know. You're not the only crafty one in the family.

DANIEL: Let's not squabble. Let's just agree that we're both a little crazy, and then go home and recreate that scene from Ghost but with my cobbling equipment.

REBECCA: You naughty crumpet! I can't wait. Make your acceptance speech short.

Oscars Post-Party PELDONS

Because we are nothing if not committed to keeping you up to date on the movements of the Sisters Peldon:

They're alive! They're attending Oscar parties in outfits which may have been purchased at Forever XXI, but hey -- a girl needs to save her coin sometimes! They're at an Oscar party partially sponsored by something called Tummy Tuck Jeans, which would have prompted me to hiss, "WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING?" at the invitation. And most disturbingly of all, Brown appears to be going blonde, an alarming development that surely signals some kind of Single White Female/Kelly Taylor's Friend From Rehab Who Tries to Steal Kelly's Life And Also Murder Her situation. I'm just saying, if we start seeing but one Peldon around town -- one sort of unidentifiable, blonde-ish Peldon -- the authorities should probably be alerted.

Oscars Post-Party Fug: Tara Reid

Wondering what Tara Reid's been up to, other than gracing the pages of our book, in which we might be a leeetle mean about her propensity to be, as Heather once said, "too often Wild and not nearly enough On"? Well, someone invited her to an Oscar party!

And she remembered her spray tan! Is it me, or is this dress way too big? I know La Reid has lost weight -- I've been reading my Star Magazine! -- but the droopy dress + the tan + a sort of aggressive expression + the blonde + a resemblance I never noticed until now = Rachel Zoe. I don't mean that she appears styled by Zoe, I mean that if you squint and shake your head and move ten feet away from the computer, she sort of LOOKS like Rachel Zoe. Though surely Zoe would have accented this with giant sunglasses and a fur stole -- and would kill me if she knew I were comparing her to Tara Reid -- but you know what I mean. My question is: does this mean that Tara Reid is on the road to producing a book about style, perhaps titled From A to Reid, all about the stylistic merits of denim minis, excessive boozing and drunk-dialing Alyson Hannigan at midnight to yell that SHE should be the one in a sitcom? I certainly hope so. I would be first in line to buy it.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Intern George's Date (Sorry, George)

Being the employers of one of the country's sauciest bachelors and smoothest-sailing dreamboats, we understand Sarah Larson's pain: All eyes are on her because George brought a date, she's the only one of his string of brunette-bots that he's brought to something like this, the magazines are screaming that she's the lucky girl who'll get him to commit again, and she knows we're all wondering why Clooney is making out with a girl who once ate a scorpion on Fear Factor.

But dating Intern George has its plus side -- you know, one or two -- and that is the fact that designers were probably throwing gowns at her by the dozen in an effort to woo her into their camp for the Oscars. She must have had an entire room at the villa full of options, and she picked this:

It's apparently a Valentino couture dress, but it looks more like Jessica McClintock passed out one night on top of a book of Monet paintings and woke up with drool on her cheek and a jones for wearable water lilies. We complained about a lack of interesting colors at the Oscars this year -- it was all red and black, making me wonder if there was a poker theme we didn't know about -- but I'm not sure I can get behind a crazy melange of pastels that may once have upholstered a couch in the lobby of my grandmother's condo building in Florida.

Oh, George, don't be like that. You know we're right. We're not saying she's not NICE -- not that we'd know, though, since we never heard her say anything all night and you never bring her around for dinner or Diet Coke breaks or donuts, but WHATEVER. So chill with the skepticism. Also, you've never seen that couch.

That's better. Now come home! We want to hear more stories about Tilda Swinton.

Oscars Fug Carpet & Ceremony: Diablo Cody

Today, we encountered several people who said one of the following to us:

1) "Oh, GOD, are you actually HAPPY Diablo Cody won for writing Juno?"

2) "Oh, GOD, are you one of THOSE people who are PISSED Diablo Cody won for writing Juno?"

Personally, and shallowly, I'm stoked for her -- everyone loves a stripper-to-screenwriter tale (or at least I do, especially if she has an evil twin lurking somewhere), so I say let her have the bronzed naked dude. It's just a trophy. And if it turns out she's secretly the daughter of a wealthy oilman who only stripped out of self-indulgent fascination with her own nipples, well, whatever. That's between her and her therapist.

Who, it's worth noting, may be getting paid overtime to counsel Cody through her Oscar fashion debut.

Objection #1: This feels a bit off-the-rack, which is fine when you're at an Oscar viewing party but not when you're viewing it from your awesome seat at the Kodak alongside the people you're about to beat. It has no shape. It's billowy. I'm pretty sure someone's slutty grandmother in Boca Raton wore this to Red Lobster on Unlimited Shrimp Night in the hope that she could eat all she wanted and still get groped by Original-Teeth Jim. If she didn't use a stylist, she should have -- most of them were probably clamoring to clothe her; she was the unanimous choice to win in our GFY HQ office poll (Intern George abstained because he was busy, or something), and you know she's going to make it in Us. GIVE your services to her, folks.

If Diablo did have a stylist, here's Objection #2: That person is BORING. Like, Cold Mountain boring. Ivanhoe boring. Or, more relevantly, 80th Annual Academy Awards boring. I like a good animal print, but when you're outfitting an unusual and rebellious sort, it's the laziest and easiest choice (except for black, possibly) if you are trying to say, "Hey, CHECK IT OUT, this woman is unusual and rebellious!" Diablo could look bitchin' in a bunch of colors and cuts that wouldn't blunt her edge, so stop sleeping on the job, people.

Objection #3: Yes, there is something really charming about a woman who clearly didn't pick her dress by thinking, "Okay, but how's it going to look when I win?" However, seriously, you're at the OSCARS. Even if you're Entertainment Weekly's 100-1 shot, you HAVE to pick your dress by thinking, "Okay, but how's it going to look when I win?" Otherwise, this happens:

AWKWARD. How do you NOT do a quick crotch-check before you leave the house? As she strode up to the podium, Diablo tried uncomfortably to hold her hand over The Area. As she walked offstage, she tugged at her dress while doing the same. And when she hugged Harrison Ford, she probably said, "Oh my GOD, Han, I think the front row just saw that my bikini line is waxed in the shape of Jason Bateman's face." And listen, we all loved David Hogan, Derek from Silver Spoons, and Michael Bluth, but a woman's genitals are her own private kingdom. So WALK in the dress. Take it for a test-drive. Practice your acceptance speech in the mirror, and make sure that your birth canal isn't inviting Jack Nicholson for a pleasure cruise while you're dedicating your award to the producers and The Children and what-have-you. It doesn't make you an egomaniac if you say to your neighbor, your boyfriend, or your Dynasty commemorative plate, "Hey, when I walk, do my genitals wink at you?" And it's worth it to forestall Jack arriving at your house with an oar in one hand and a life-vest in the other.

Oscars Post-Party Fug: Jeremy Piven

Hey Jer,

What's up? Not a lot going on right now, huh? Kinda just bored at home? Doing a lot of "chillaxing" with your bros? Yeah, us too. You know,  just doing our thing. I feel you.

One thing, though:

I know it was The Most Boring Oscars EverTM, and everyone -- except Marion Cotillard, whom I've decided upon reflection that I might be in love with -- looked Totally Boring, but do you really think it's wise to attempt, once again, the old I'm Too Cool to Bathe, Dude, I Just Show Up And Do My Thing scuzzathon? It's possible no one told you, but Colin Farrell JUST did that.  And he actually made me laugh during a leaked sex tape (not that I watched it, I totally just made that up, but if I had watched Colin Farrell's sex tape -- under duress obviously -- then I might have laughed when, whilst manning the camera, he commented that his cinematography was REALLY terrible and embarrassing.). So I think it's apt to note that he might be the more skilled man at Charming Scuzzery. You know?

Oscar Fug Carpet: Hilary Swank

Hilary Swank is someone who should probably avoid making statements -- I wasn't a fan of the navy backless dress the year she won for Million-Dollar Baby, and of course there was that pre-GFY Academy Awards to which she wore a pink minidress wrapped in full-length tulle. It's like she thinks we still don't Get It that she's attractive and womanly, but in fact, we do.

So I was relieved she stayed away from statement dressing -- for her sake, of course; OBVIOUSLY we were hoping she'd show up in a piñata. But in the end I still don't think I'm entirely on board with what she picked.

The translucent skirt is sort of fine, but I'm not wild about the way she's woven into it, nor how the design makes it look like the cross-hatching is slowly coming undone and will eventually leave her semi-nude in a big swinging, filmy black drape. And my early interest in the bodice wore off the longer I stared at it, at which point it began looking like arachnids on parade.

And then, of course, there is the close-up.

Girl, you have GOT to keep the side-boob in check. Your gown has to stand the test of, oh, at least FIFTEEN MINUTES of posing and throwing elbows to get through the throng before your chest makes a run for it. Strap those suckers in, tape 'em down, and put your assistant on Ooze Watch all night. It's why you pay him or her, and also, it's great fodder for his/her eventual memoir, which puts mortgage-caliber money in his/her pocket. So really, screeching for boob tape at 2:58 p.m. -- mere minutes before you're supposed to burst forth from the limo and try not to become hypnotized by Lisa Rinna's lips of putty -- and then shrieking, "You'd better not take your eyes off my boobs ALL NIGHT or you're FIRED," is actually a GENEROUS act.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Heigl vs Hathaway

In a year when a lot of people showed up in red, I half-expected Katherine Heigl to whip out a shiv and shank the hell out of Anne Hathaway for arriving earlier in a jazzier, more romantic version of her tomato gown. Not that it's Hathaway's fault; I just feel like if a girl is so annoying as to complain about her husband and married life every time you shove a microphone into her face, then she's the type of pill who will sneak up behind Anne at the post-party and husk, "You know what the devil wears? HOSPITAL SCRUBS, bitch. Sleep with one eye open."

So let's compare the dresses. First up: Katherine Heigl, because maybe by putting her first she won't leave a flaming bag of manure on our doorsteps.

It's nice. And it fits snugly. Her makeup is a splotchy hot mess and I'm a little tired of her trying to morph herself into Marilyn Monroe -- which, speaking of pilfering, I wonder how Christina Aguilera feels about her aesthetic being snatched out from under her nose while she was doing her laamaze breathing. But otherwise, there's nothing really overtly wrong with it.

However, although the dresses aren't identical and certainly there's room for both of them in this world, we're guessing Katherine Heigl took one look at Anne Hathaway and immediately ran for the bar:

An asymmetrical neckline with a peekaboo opening in the shoulder, a rich hue, red lipstick.... check, check, check, but better, and all the while proving it doesn't have to be tight to be flattering. Anne hasn't befriended the Marchesa girls for nothing. They're very good at what they do -- specifically, making girly, flowy dresses for deployment on the red carpet, the better to get more stars to come crawling to them for girly, flowy dresses to deploy on the red carpet -- and they can take a floral detail like that and give it just enough glamour that it's not as "I Just Got Lei'd In Maui" as it could've been.

But the crowning achievement of the above dress just might be that it's NOT this dress. Anne had nowhere to go but up, and fortunately, she went straight to the penthouse -- or at least to one of those floors right underneath it that still has decent views but lacks an in-house bowling alley. Which is too bad, because I'd love to see the equally pompous Heigl and Hathaway duke it out on the lanes, Big Lebowski-style, for the right to a spot on Us Weekly's best-dressed list. One of them would end up with a pin in the kisser for sure.

poll by twiigs.com

Oscar Fug Carpet Fug or Fab: Ellen Page

Oh, ELLEN:

I know, I know. You love the Converse. You live in an old converted whorehouse. You're a smart kid and a bit of a tomboy. I like you. You seem smart. I think you're adorable. If I lived next door to you, we'd be hanging out, shooting the shit all the time. And if that were the case, today I would go shuffling over some time after noon with Tito's Tacos (for the hangover) and the papers, and we'd eat six or seven bags of chips and then I'd say, "Ellen, WTF?" And you'd roll your eyes, and then I'd say, "WHY DIDN'T YOU ASK ME?" and you'd say, "because you would have told me not to wear it." And I'd said, "And?" And you would say, "and you would have been right."

Oscar Fug Carpet Fug or Fab: Marion Cotillard

On one hand, it looks like what might happen if fish scales and lace mated. On the other, it's French and so is she, and she's so pretty and she was so, so lovely and adorable when she won, and you know what? I think I might sort of....like it.

I mean, for one thing, it's certainly very flattering on her. She looks like a sexy fish-lady on her wedding day, which I know SOUNDS weird and rude, but I mean it in totally the most complimentary way. You feel me, right? Tell me you feel me:

polls by twiigs.com...

Oscar Fug Carpet: Well Played, Jennifer Hudson

"This performance goes out to my grand old frenemy, Andre Leon Talley. It's all for you, A.L.T..."

"And I am TEEEEELLLLING YOOOU,

IIIIIIII AM NOT CALLLLLING.

You're the WORST STYLIST that I'll ever know.

What the HELL was that gold bolero?!?!?

No, no, no, NOOOOO way,

NOOOOO way

IIIIIII'M letting you clothe MEEEEE.

I don't want to look CRAZY.

I'm free, I'm free!

And you, and you, and YOU,

You're gonna RUE MEEEEEEEEEEEE."

Oscar Fug Carpet: Colin Farrell

Listen, it's hard enough to get up and get into that suit. Clean hair is JUST TOO MUCH TO ASK.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Renee Zellweger

Oh, look, it's Renee Zzzzzzz......

Sorry, I nodded off there for a second. Not that there's anything empirically wrong with this; it's a pretty cut, a dazzling fabric, and a lovely cool metallic hue. But doesn't it feel like we've seen this a thousand times before on her? Okay, maybe not with that exact haircut -- which Renee has GOT to grow out before someone comes up to her and asks what it was like to be one of the Von Trapp sons -- but the rest is so cookie-cutter Zellweger. It has such a strong aura of been-there-done-that even Carolina Herrera herself probably had to take a No Doz to finish the assignment. Try some sleeves for once, Renee. Or a wig. Poke your legs through a stuffed Simba. Hell, at this point Renee could wear Bjork herself, and I'd applaud her for being refreshing.

Oscars Post-Party Fug: Sharon Stone

"HELLO FRIENDS. I am SHARON STONE. And I am FABULOUS. BEHOLD my white suit, a tribute -- nay, a glorious homage -- to my peep John Travolta. Admit it. I look kind of rad in this. You know I do. For I can do anything: I had a brain thingie that exploded in my head...and LIVED. I had a husband who got bit by a dragon...AND THEN I LEFT HIM. I was the FIRST actress to show people my vagina -- THE FIRST! Well, sort of. Okay, that's a total lie. But for the purposes of my current argument: THE FIRST! I AM LEGEND. And yes, I look like a tapping-dancing maitre d' in this. I KNOW THAT. But I'm an AWESOME tap-dancing maitre d'. AND YOU LOVE IT. You'd look like a refugee from a college production of one of those Busby Berkeley musicals where people twirl around in concentric circles holding giant coins. But I look GLORIOUS. BEHOLD ME!

PS: I AM WEARING A RABBIT'S FOOT, IT'S TRUE. Watch out, I'll use as a swizzle stick in your cocktail if you displease me, HUMAN"

Oscars Fug Carpet: Cameron Diaz

Last year I wrote that Cameron Diaz's white Oscar gown "inspired me to plug in my iron." Which I remember not because I am so amused at myself, but rather because her gown this year felt like an equally dusty "before" shot from an ad extolling the glories of spray starch.

Last year it felt like a linen napkin; this year, it's a bedsheet, and -- it must be said -- possibly a very low thread-count bedsheet she bought from Target because her old linens smelled like Justin and so she had to burn them.

It doesn't get much better from the back:

That is so messy and unflattering. Not to mention that I think she did her hair while in the act of surfing. You know, Cammy is reportedly shacking up with John Mayer again occasionally, and this nightmare feels quite like the kind of up-yours subversion he'd want to engage in if he were invited. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn he draped this for her as a joke, using nothing but a staple gun and a mickey of rum, which would account for that strange patch that's practically begging everyone to stare right at the business end of her derriere. The easy explanation could be that the dress ripped and had to be patched, but it certainly looks more like a functional window, which she can retract at will to enable quick trips to the bathroom between awards. I guess we'll never know unless we hear her wailing from inside the stall, "DAMMIT, the LEVER is broken. Does anyone have a sweatshirt I can tie around my waist? Anyone? Come on, Ellen Page HAS to have a hoodie in the car."

Oscar Fug Carpet: Tilda Swinton

Okay, full disclosure: when Tilda here won, both Heather and I clapped with glee. Sure, she dresses like a nutjob some of the time, but she seems really coooool, and, like, authentic somehow. You know, she's got that crazy living situation where she and her ex and her current boy toy all live together and she never wears make-up, but it doesn't seem like an affectation and she and Intern George love each other, and if she's good enough for Intern George, she's okay by me. Plus, there's something to be said for someone who's a reliably crazy dresser: I might hate what she's wearing, but at least it's interesting.

See:

I mean...let's just say that Jessica Simpson wore this somewhere. If I'm being honest, I would so let her have it. There would be so many garbage bag jokes, Hefty would cut us a check. And she does look totally uneven, like she caught one of her arms in the limo door on the way over and had to leave it behind as a casualty of war. Or like one half of her body is going to the nunnery to take the veil (after her true love dies in the war, of course, and she will spend all her time in the convent looking radiantly beautiful as a heartbroken-yet-brave bride of Christ, and it will be SO heart-wrenching when it turns out her lover is ALIVE, and yes, I watched a lot of movies about nuns as a child, so what?), and the other half looks like she's going to the nunnery to take the veil, but it was really hot that day. So, yeah, she is not at all wearing what I would wear to the Oscars (two words: turbans!), but it's....Tilda Swinton. This is totally what she wears, like, grocery shopping. I can't totally ding it for her.

polls by twiigs.com...

Oscar Post-Party Fug Carpet: Natalie Maines

It's a shame Natalie Maines was not ready to make nice with her stylist; if she had, she might have avoided this red plague. The top makes her look so wide and enormous that she almost appears to be standing on only one foot -- as if she had actually been wearing the largest, most ruffled trousers on the planet, until a very aggressive man named King Arthur came along on his phantom horse and hacked off her right leg when she wouldn't let him past her into the forest.

So I guess the lesson here is, tip your stylist. Or at least let her hold one of your Grammys for more than two seconds.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Well Played, Rinko Kikuchi

I admit, I was hoping that Rinko Kikuchi would show up to the Oscars wearing something crazy -- a dress made entirely of bubble wrap, maybe, or couture legwarmers, or a turban. I wasn't alone. On the E! preshow, they ran a crawl along the bottom of the screen featuring text messages that viewers had sent in. Typically, they said things like, "Jennifer Hudson RULES! -- Sarah in Chicago," or "Where's Rachel McAdams?!?! - McGosling Lover in Houston" or "Ryan Seacrest is so HOT -- Ryan in Los Angeles." But one message caught my eye in particular. It said, "Wear something crazy for us, Rinko!" (Sadly, I did not catch the name of the sender. If you're out there: well played, sender.) And yet, I can't say I'm disappointed with Rinko's lack of Oscar crazy:

Because she looks awesome. This is what I imagine Chanel couture SHOULD look like, when I am imagining having the kind of money it takes to buy Chanel couture. I don't want to spend my bazillions on ankle spats. I want to spend them on something like this: exquisitely fitted, chic, a little sparkly, and very glam. And yet I hope this is not the last we'll see of Rinko Kikuchi. For one thing, her name is cool. For another, I suspect she has not worn the last of her out-there outfits.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Tracey Edmonds

In the end, Tracey Edmonds turned out to be Eddie Murphy's most necessary accessory on Oscar night. When he peered into her reflective sternum after he lost and realized he wasn't a good enough actor to hide the burning, seething, frothing rage shooting like lasers from his eyes and nostrils, he quickly hightailed it out of the Kodak Theater lest the producers spend the rest of the evening gleefully cutting to furious closeups during everyone else's golden moments.

Unfortunately for Tracey, she was the one stuck wearing the thing, which managed to give her the illusion of flesh rolls she almost certainly doesn't really have. So really, neither of them were winners here.

Oscar Post-Party Fug Carpet: Joy Bryant

They're called camisoles, Joy. It almost rhymes with areola, which is what I can see because you're not wearing any kind of undergarments. Although, actually, you'd probably need something strapless, since when you stapled your flimsy translucent fabric together, you were determined to do it in a way that thwarted anything strapped. So perhaps I should say, "They're called undergarments, Joy." And they result in your boobs not being entirely visible to the rest of the world. Do you have a friend who can take you to Victoria's Secret -- you know, the giant pink panty palace in the mall where 40 photos of Gisele in tiny underwear stare down at you as you wonder whether you can handle that much lace in your nethers? Yes, that place. You might want to go there.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: "Night Of Fewer Stars Than You'd Think" Gala

Perhaps the saddest thing we've seen amid all the Oscar hullabaloo is the "Night of 100 Stars" gala. Doesn't that feel like it should have been "Night of 1,000 Stars"? Indeed, I was positive I was just spotting a caption typo, until the red-carpet backdrop confirmed that the organizers prefer to aim low.

And, when you have your sights set significantly below the awe-inspiring cliche, why toss two of your invitations at the Peldons?

Granted, our favorite Hollywood style-and-scent minxes are looking very pretty; Courtney's dress looks a tiny bit like what soft restraints might have been in ancient Greece, but Brown's is quite unusual and flattering, and considering their catalog of failures in the past, we're willing to give this a thumbs-up. But it's not like either of them even sneezed near any of the nominated films, so once again, we have to applaud either their moxie or their management team's ability to convince people that they're the Olsen Twins.

Not that it matters, in terms of this event. By next year it will have become the "Night of 10 Stars," so discounted because Barbara Walters will have thrown a massive snit fit not only at having been included on a guest list with two girls who tried to sell her a perfume called, "The Aging Daytime-TV Babysitter," but also with this "star":

This is not to imply that we have anything against the GEICO caveman. In fact, his sense of comic timing might well be more impressive than that of half the people in the Kodak Theater. (Does Gwynnie even know any jokes?) And yes, this man has made plenty of nice money on his omnipresent national commercials, so we can't feel too badly for him.

But it just feels sick and wrong to invite him to an Oscar party and then require him to wear his caveman makeup. It's like telling Mark Hamill he can only come if he wears a Jedi robe and carries a light saber, or forcing the Blue's Clues dude to show up in a striped shirt and hunt around for paw prints all night while singing inane songs and writing in his giant notebook, or forcing Carroll Spinney to attend in his Big Bird suit. It's not ESPN, people; there aren't other mascots hanging around the hallways waiting to bring Dan Patrick some coffee and hair wax. So what's his function here, exactly? Is he supposed to be working? Selling car insurance to celebrities? Trying to prove his ilk are at least as smart as Brown Peldon, Perfumeologist? Do people hope we'll find ourselves gripped by the sudden urge to change our car insurance? Was the gecko dispatched across town to the Vanity Fair shindig?

It just doesn't seem right. So we aren't fugging the man; we feel like he did a very hot, sweaty, skin-clogging favor to his company. We are fugging the concept of making him do that favor on Oscar night. For shame, peeps. Let the caveman's pores breathe.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Well Played, Jennifer Lopez

Hola, bitches!

Admit it, compadres, you all sort of love me now. You love it when I show up wearing something not even royalty could pull off that well, you love it when Marc has color in his face, and you LOVE that you cannot figure out why I am so happy all the time. And yet, I am. Look at me! Do you think silly skinny Reese could wear all these sparkly things without one of them snapping her collarbone? NO. Do you think Celine Dion could wear this? NO, because when she pounds her fist against her chest, she would break it open on all these jewels. Do you think pointy little Jennifer Garner could get her hands on anything this awesome from Ben Blahfleck? NO. Whatever you're thinking -- the answer is NO. I am rocking this dress as only I, Jennifer Lopez Noa Judd almost-Affleck Anthony, could ever do. And I don't care if you think I'm pregnant. MAYBE I AM. Or maybe I just wanted to leave room for when I go eat a Double-Double with animal-style fries later tonight -- did you ever think of that, smarty cows? Marc loves things animal-style, although when he's saying that, usually he is drinking from one of the household rats we have in the attic. Anyway, pregnant, not pregnant, whatever, it doesn't matter to YOU. First, I will look hot either way, and second, I floated in here on a cloud of glamour, and SECOND, I am bored of your talk. Marc, vengame -- let's go stand next to Cameron Diaz and make her cry! HA HA HA HA! I'll show YOU how to be elegant, you rangy, mangy surfer person!

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Suzanne Somers

This is something delightful to me about Suzanne Somers. It's not leftover sentimentality from a childhood of watching Three's Company, because even at a young age I found her character irritatingly dim. If I were Jack Tripper, I would have spent all my time down at the Regal Beagle so as to avoid having to make the effort to communicate with her. I am not secretly also running a website called Go Thighmaster Yourself -- a fact which is, tragically, immediately apparent. I have never read either her book of poetry, or her 2004 publication, The Sexy Years: Discover the Hormone Connection - The Secret to Fabulous Sex, Great Health, and Vitality, for Women and Men, although The Sexy Years sounds like the name of an awesome Justin Timberlake retrospective produced in approximately 2023. In fact, I have no idea where this affection comes from. It just is. However, I have no affection for this:

This is what happens when a bridesmaid's dress meets a craft store fanatic: tragedy, and enough rosettes to last any woman's lifetime. Also, dyed to match shoes. However, that enormous chestral-ruff does seem like it would come in handy if you ran out of places on which to set your drink.

Oscar Post-Party Oh-My-God-Why-Is-Everyone-Dressing-Like-They're-Pregnant: Kerry Washington

I don't mind this dress, in theory, but something about the way it hangs on Kerry Washington makes her look kind of bloated and large. And we're sure she's not. Because, seriously, no one in this town has eaten solid food in two days.

It bugs me that the illusion netting is bunching up on the side, and the entire line of the gown just swallows her whole. What is it? She just broke up with David Moscow -- is this going to be another Brady-Moynahan story, but without the hot quarterback and the supermodel third-wheel? Is there something fertile in the water in Los Angeles? Or was Kerry just the victim of a waist-gobbling gown?

I guess we'll find out soon. However, we may have already lost interest. What can we say? It's just not potentially soapy enough. Get back to us when her presumed-decapitated high-school sweetheart turns out to be the father.

Oscar During-Party Fug Carpet: Well Played, J.Lo.Hew

Apparently, in Hollywood, there's a party for people who didn't get invited to the Academy Awards, and they get all dolled up in their finery and congregate to watch the telecast together. It's like the Red Carpet, Jr. Which is both sweet and maybe a little sad, like it's the overflow audience for a talk show that just missed the cut, except with better clothes. Still, these parties probably had a killer open bar, and who are we to imply that anyone should refuse it?

Certainly not when they look as divine as Jennifer Love Hewitt did.

This is a woman who's historically had a lot of trouble dressing the boobs and the hips without making herself look ten pounds heavier than she is. So we're thrilled to see how this dress skims her in all the right ways, putting a little cleavage -- okay, a lot of cleavage -- on display and giving herself graceful, clean lines everywhere else. She's even got a soft, romantic updo and her bangs are out of her face, an elegant change from the everyday for her.

Whatever Ross McCall is doing for her, he obviously does well, and so we hope he keeps doing it. Maybe he's The Fug Whisperer -- he sees her fug when she can't, and he helps it cross over into the light so that it leaves her alone and she can get on with her life without worrying that a possessed peasant top is going to throw itself at her and bind her to it for an entire afternoon.

Whatever it is, well played, both of you. Just don't go any further with the Mystic Tan.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Debbie Gibson

Debbie Gibson appears confused. Is she at an Oscar party, or does she think she's heading to another stint on So You Think You Can Skate, Celebrity? or whatever that show is called?

Actually, I think I can explain what's going on here. I recently read an article in which Debbie explained that she's been obsessed with Liberace ever since her electric youth. She, in fact, owns his famous white, mirrored piano.  Clearly, this gown is a salute to Liberace, with the white and the spangles and the cape-y draping and the flamboyant enthusiasm. She probably has a candelabra in her purse. But sadly, this sort of look works only in her dreams. I feel that it would be in her best interest to shake her love over to Barney's and find something else to wear, because if this dress, out of the blue, found that it had a beat, that beat would be a foolish one indeed.  I'm sure, like most of us, all Debbie wants is for someone to love her. But how, I ask, can she find someone to get lost in her eyes if they're staring at her dress in horror? Think about that, carefully, Debbie.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Penelope Cruz

We understand why Penelope Cruz changed out of that magnificently show-stopping feathered ball-gown (tough to pull off unless you play the hair, makeup, and accessories to perfection and know how to strut a red-carpet with panache, which she does/did): To be sure, that train would be a nightmare to negotiate at a party. It'd be brown by the time the night ended and half the feathers would be stuck to the bottom of people's borrowed shoes. But still. If my collegiate Spanish classes have stuck at all -- and let's hope they have, because my parents would probably be pleased to see me using at least ONE skill I studied in college -- I can say this: Penelope, vuelvate to the limo and hide there until someone brings you a coat, okay? Because this is not an acceptable follow-up to that red-carpet spectacle. We've covered dresses over pants. Dresses over leggings. And dresses over heads. But dresses over other dresses? That's a new one.

It's like she took a slinky nightie and belted a tube-dress around it. I wish I could've seen this without the distractingly disco attachment. As it stands, we're left to wonder what madness drove her to this, and also, what happens if we tug on the tassels. Does the silver part roll up to reveal a hilarious message? Does her limo show up to sweep her away? Does a shower spray spontaneously appear over Orlando Bloom's head wherever he might be?

So many mysteries.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Adam Brody

Back in the day, I was deeply into Adam Brody. I was even given a tee shirt reading "Mrs. Seth Cohen." This was Season One of The O.C Adam Brody/Seth Cohen, who, as I'm sure we all remember, was almost too cute to bear, unlike latter seasons' iterations of the character, who became almost too aggravating to deal with, especially since it seemed that Cohen was totally phoning it in. I'm of the belief that you have to give a show more than 13 episodes before you're allowed to feel like you're too awesome for it, myself. But that's all neither here nor there. What is both here and there is my theory that Brody is either deeply depressed about something, or honestly does think he's too painfully cool for school. Check it out:

Kid, it's the OSCARS.   At least shave your neck. 

Oscar Post-Party Fug Carpet Pregnancy Rumor-Mongering: Rachel Griffiths

It's not so much that I think Rachel Griffiths looks especially pregnant; rather, I just don't know many people who caress their abdominal region unless they're invested in the contents of their uterus. Perhaps she's merely regretting ordering the risotto. Or maybe she ate too many tiny egg-salad sandwiches at the funeral she just attended for the demise of the far better, more flattering outfit she had planned to wear until her cranky child put it in the microwave. Indigestion is rough. Maybe the good people at Tums should start co-sponsoring these parties -- after all, "Tums" backwards is "Smut," and that's kind of appropriate, don't you think?

Oscar Fug Carpet: Well Played, Cate Blanchett

Our love-hate relationship with Cate Blanchett's fashion sense is rather well documented in the GFY archives, so we're always excited to see what she's going to wear on the red carpet -- adore it or abhor it, we're never indifferent, and that's at least one victory right there.

This year, "love" won. And so I present a series of affectionate haiku-style poems dedicated to her achievement.

Cate loves metallics
like I love potato chips.
But, can't wear those. Boo.

Sexy iron sheath
makes Camelot wish chain mail
could look this gorgeous.

She's a tall, frosty
steel-wool milkshake, minus the
wool. Plus chocolate.

Fair skin is in, yay!
Ditch the bronzer, orange freaks.
Cate proves paleness rocks.

Out of Diet Coke.
Sad. Tortured. Crushed. Off-topic.
Cate: Bring me one? Please?

Guess it's errand time
For Intern George. Cans, please, love!
Plus, I should post this.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Jenna Jameson

I know Jenna Jameson is a famed porn star, and therefore we shouldn't anticipate that she would abide by the standards of normalcy applied to much of the rest of the sentient world. But, something's gone awry there. Consider Ms. Jameson at the Big in '06 awards late last year:

Boobalicious, and certainly not all-natural by any stretch of the imagination, but she's still a pretty girl and you can see why she's had such a long and, er, active career.

So we were rather alarmed to see the condition of her face at an Oscar afterparty this past Sunday night.

Whatever doctor did her lip injections gives new meaning to the slam, "Quack." Unless she was actually mauled by a particularly contrary duck that wanted nothing more than to clamp down on her freshly fluffed lips until they froze that way. She also, generally speaking, looks like a particularly large pothole on a ten-mile stretch of rough road, but we can probably attribute that to the rigors of her profession. The most disastrous turn of events seems to be her mouth; apparently she learned nothing from the Jessica Simpson Restylane Debacle, nor the parade of Us Weekly covers that followed (their hobby of late is printing photos of J.Simp looking like an especial quackhead). Come on, Jenna -- hop off the sex-swing, unhook the leg cuffs, put your hip back into joint, pull the mask off your face and at least try leafing through something shallow at a newstand. Or, better, at yourself. It's not good.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Jennifer Hudson

Oh, what a journey it's been for Jennifer Hudson.  I'm not talking about her journey from American Idol to the Oscars or whatever. I'm talking about the journey through fug that she took on the night of the Academy Awards.

See, according to Page Six, her stylist Jessica Paster "got her a beautiful gold Roberto Cavalli custom-made," but Vogue's Andre Leon Talley, who's been helping style her as well, allegedly had a fit when he heard about the Cavalli and made her wear his choice.  This:

Because a girl totally wants to look like she's wearing something that might have been spotted in the background of the Thriller video on the biggest night of her life.  She also totally wants to have the hem of her shorty bolero hit her at the widest spot of her chest, making her look way bigger than she actually is. Oh, also? If she could find a color that totally makes her look washed out and boring? That'd be great.  What's up with ALT?  Did Anna Wintour crack him over the head with a thigh-high boot during a confrontation at the office, thereby knocking the chic out of his head? Did spending a lot of time with Jennifer Hudson lead him to secretly, passionately hate her, thereby leading to this act of sabotage? Does he really just love lame?

But J Hud -- good for her -- managed to pull it together over the course of the evening, working it first in the red dress she performed in, and then changing into what I assume is the Cavalli for both the press room and the after-parties:

So much better, no? This is what she should have worn to walk the red carpet. She looks awesome in this. The brown number might have been more comfortable, sure, but you put on something LESS formal for the after-parties, right? Like, when I was in high school, we all put on flannel shirts over our prom dresses for the after-party so we could be comfortable while we talked about how totally rad Pearl Jam was. We didn't wear the flannel to the prom itself. Not to mention the fact that I think it's kind of insane to change for the party -- are people shimmying into and out of things in the limo? Because that seems like a lot of work for an evening where you should have started out the night looking your best, anyway. Not like an extra from a long-shuttered Star Wars musical. Not that I blame J Hud for that fiasco, entirely - when you're in Oscar de la Renta with Andre Leon Talley and they're telling you that the cropped shiny thing is the way to go, you probably figure they know what they're talking about. But let this be a lesson to us all. When your instincts tell you to reject a tin-foil cardigan, listen to them, or find yourself telling the limo driver to avert his eyes from your Spanx.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Meryl Streep

Meryl Steep is, as we have said again and again in this space, awesome in so many ways. She is, of course, a great actress. She seems like she would be fun to socialize with. We still want her to adopt Lindsay Lohan, but she should feel free to add Britney Spears to that list, if she likes. But, girl, what is the deal with this?

She's giving us her blessings, which means a lot  as she is apparently some sort of high priestess or shaman-type-person judging from the holy vestments she's working. 

Oscar Post-Party Fug Carpet: Rose McGowan

It's not so much the outfit we have a problem with; given Rose McGowan's history, we're just lucky we aren't being treated to a full moon, so to speak. No, our issue here is, sadly, with Rose's face. Why is she styling herself in the image of the older, squintier, and frequently less moisturized Teri Hatcher? It's alarming. It doesn't even look like Rose. Maybe this is where we find out that years ago, back when she was manning his flesh puppet, she sold her blood to Marilyn Manson for use in a devil-summoning ceremony, and her payback is premature Hatchulation. Let that be a lesson to you, kids: Don't give Marilyn Manson any of your bodily fluids. Are you listening, Evan Rachel Wood?

Oscar Post-Party Pregnancy Rumor-Mongering: Katie Holmes

Though I am loathe to start rumors, and don't want to be one of those people who is all, "THAT TOP IS TOTALLY BLOUSE-Y! SHE MUST BE KNOCKED UP!", would you not agree that Katie Holmes appears to be conversing with a currently fetus-sized, bodily-contained  little Cruiselette here?

"Don't worry," she seems to be saying, "soon we'll be inside, where there are shrimps on skewers." I don't really think she's pregnant again, but there's something about all the layers on this number -- which I was neutral on until I spent some hard time with it, back when I was trying to figure out it she was bump-ified, but which I've since decided that I actually rather like, despite the fact that it somewhat resembles fantastically glamorous window treatments in the bedroom of a spectacularly pampered, quite beautiful, but generally aggravating baroness -- that implies she's got something uterine going on.

It's less apparent in some of the other photos, like this one:

Which is notable for me, mostly, because it's sort of sweet to watch Tom Cruise seemingly pleased to see Katie get all the media attention while he stands off to the side. I don't know, maybe they're both brainwashed. Did anyone think of THAT? In fact, I just thought of it myself.  (PS: I'm sure the Scientologists have never brainwashed anyone.) If so, maybe it's wearing off a bit, because she's back in the heels and he appears to have gotten his hair cut by a licensed professional rather than a mail-order sucking device. And for that, I'd like to congratulate him.

And maybe congratulations are in order for other reasons. The night prior to the Oscars, Katie attended an event hosted by Giorgio Armani, wearing another suspiciously draped bit:

Which I actually think is adorable on her. Seriously, say what you will about her relationship with Cruise and how you hardly ever see cute little Suri and how handsome Josh Jackson is looking these days (what? He really is), but the girl generally looks beautifully turned out, and I'd love to hear what she and Mr Armani are chortling about. I suspect it involves Posh.

Okay, and now that I've said all these nice things about her, let's tell everyone that she's got a bun in the oven and Mr. Armani is the father. Go!

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Lauren Hutton

Oh, Lauren Hutton. Even when you try not to be nuttier than a pecan pie, you still can't help yourself.

Even though your skirt looks like an enormous cartoon fish vomiting up its own membranes, we appreciate that you deviated from the Shaman of Ojai vibe you projected in 2006 -- which you shouldn't have loaned to Meryl Streep, but let's not digress. The effort at dressing up did not go unnoticed; it's just a shame you dumped ketchup all over your front and had to cover it with a ladies' seafoam stretch tee from Talbot's.

The whole experience must have been incredibly traumatic. If we'd been through it, we surely wouldn't have brushed our hair, either.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Kelly Preston

"Hi! Listen, we haven't talked in a while -- not since that whole "Scientology rocks!" thing, really, huh? I guess you didn't find that so amusing. Which is fine, although I should point out that nothing brings back your sense of humor like a nice, thorough auditing. It's fun! It's like a colonic for your SOUL. Anyway, I know you guys have been wondering a lot of things, like why John's hair looked like he glued Dick Clark's scalp to his own, or why John was allowed to participate in Wild Hogs on my watch. Seriously, though, do you think I could've stopped it? Johnny is so light-hearted and free -- nothing would keep him from a freeing nude romp in the wilderness. He once told me he likes to live every day like he's in A Room With A View, and who am I to stop that? But, if you must know, I totally wasn't even around. See, on a Church mission, I was dispatched to live a fun double-life as the arm-candy to a New Jersey drug mogul who's been squiring me around the mall social scene, with occasional side trips to his giant Miami-based yacht, "The Tom Cruiser." I suggested the name; can you tell? Anyhoo, were having a gay old time -- I was telling Mr. Yacht all about L. Ron and soul colonics -- and then, poof! Suddenly I remembered I was supposed to go with John to the Oscars. I didn't even have time to change out of my animal print. I just hopped a plane and met him on the red rug. So, you see, I wasn't really around to stop him from his biker mid-life crisis fantasy flick, but with Norbit sucking all the joy out of Eddie Murphy's life, I don't think anyone even noticed Wild Hogs, and anyway, it's William H. Macy who looks the most desperate to pay his tithes -- er, I mean, his rent. But I'm back in town now and I promise I'll do what I can to make sure John doesn't publicly straddle anything for a while. Deal? Deal! Now, does anyone have some AquaNet? My hair's not NEARLY big enough."

Oscar Fug Carpet: Well Played, Maggie Gyllenhaal

Let it never be said that we are unable to change our tune if the song we've been singing goes off key. In this case, the old saw "Maggie Gyllenhaal, What The Hell Are You Wearing?" has suddenly gone totally off the rails:

That is awesome, and I love it.  All her everything is in the right place and she looks appropriately formal without looking predictable or prom-y. The navy and the black are chic, but she still -- refreshingly -- looks sort of  unusual without giving the impression that she picked up her outfit at the Hipster One-Stop Irony-In-Dressing Shoppe.  Also, Peter Saarsgaaaaaaaarrrddd is rocking his best  "Sure, There's Something About Me That's Mildly Threatening, But You Think It's Hot, Don't You?"  Which is an excellent accessory, I think.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Nicole Kidman

It's great that Nicole Kidman decided to wear a color this year, instead of her usual white or flesh-tone, which only serve to remind us all how bland and dull she is these days. However, listen up, Nic:

a) We wish you were still a deeper redhead;

b) We're very sorry that you only came upon this dress because you were recently, tragically near-decapitated while ironing the life and moisture out of your hair, and needed an outfit that would help hold your head atop your neck;

c) Seriously, please, Nicole, bring back the red hair, because it will help you look more alive;

d) Consider doing some sympathy-eating with your pregnant pal Naomi Watts, because if you lose any more weight, you will be able to slip through the space between closed doors and the doorjambs, and your husband might resent that loss of privacy;

e) Try not to have your head lopped off again any time soon, okay? You can't wear choking, constrictive neck-bows to everything. Isn't that why your hubby Keith rarely strays from wearing his shirts unbuttoned to his sternum?

f) Stop with the Botox. [Hey, it had to be said.] If you aren't careful, Naomi's baby will mistake you for a doll it can drag around everywhere by the arm, and that is rarely an enjoyable way to pass the time.

Thank you. Have a nice day. Although make no mistake, we're still in a bit of a fight over Bewitched -- I'm not going to get over that one for a while, Nic, and you're just going to have to wait it out. Be sure to tell Michael Caine that he's not off the hook, either, okay? Just because my father faintly resembles him, he thinks he can get away with anything. Not so, faux-Dad. Not so.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Anne Hathaway

At least I can think of one nice thing to say about Anne Hathaway's enormous black bow.

Just kidding. I totally can't. It's huge and it's glaring at me. It is as if one of Sarah Ferguson's famed hair-bows from the late 1980s went rogue from her storage trunks and attacked Anne on the red carpet, resulting in a giant Dark Mark of Shame that's tagging her for impending doom. What's more, it's hitting her body where the dress is the least flattering to it, and all I can think of is, "Surely SOMEONE could have loaned her a body-shaper." Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled she walks among the living -- the normal, flesh-carrying ladies of the world -- but, honey, there's no shame in getting a little help under your lace-curtain gown. And with a massive, angry black bow dragging your chest down to your navel, you need all the extra help you can get.

At least it's not bigger.... wait a second, that's a compliment, right? So what if it's so backhanded you can practically see the marks from my knuckles imprinted on it as I whipped my hand across its inky folds. At least the bow isn't devouring her entire body. Phew! I did have a nice thing to say. The dress didn't make a liar out of me. My mother will be so proud.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Eva Green

What is the DEAL with Eva Green? She was so hot in Casino Royale, but every time she appears somewhere under the auspices of playing herself, she shows up looking like she's an emissary from the undead:

"Beware, human lifeform! I have come to this place for one purpose and one purpose only: to drain your puny corpse of its sweet, salty nectar.  Don't try to escape me, for my living corpse never grows tired and can not be outwitted. I will feast on your brainmeat tonight... tomorrow night... or the night after that. Whichever. But know this! Whenever you lie down to sleep your human sleep, I will pounce! Whenever you close your eyes to think, I will bite! Whenever you look away from your glowing, anemic computer screen, it is I who will standing outside your window. As long as it's dark out while you're working, because I can't leave my apartment until nightfall. But these are details, MORTAL, details. Details that I will work out whilst slumbering the breathless sleep of the undead, details that can not prevent my coming for you. MWHHAHAHAHAHAHA. Also, you should know that, being undead, I can't ever check my hair in the mirror. In case you were wondering. Anyway. WATCH OUT. Your sweet existence-fuel is mine!"

Oscar Fug Carpet: Rashida Jones

Alas, all that time baking under the fluorescent lights of The Office has cooked Rashida's noggin. She should never have BELIEVED John Krasinski when he told her they'd turned the Oscars into a picnic. Did she really imagine Peter O'Toole would consent to sitting cross-legged on an ABC promotional beach towel with Evangeline Lilly's face on it, munching on tuna salad, sipping weak Mimosas out of tiny plastic cups and trying to figure out if there were ants up his pants or whether his skin was just dancing from the illicit excitement of Jennifer Hudson's boob popping out? I think not. He would NEVER risk getting a chunk of tuna caught in his dentures.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Faye Dunaway

My Favorite Actress of the Past, Diva of Forever Faye Dunaway strikes again:

It was all going so well until we hit the knees, and then it was all downhill from there. I'm just not sure what the thought process was in deciding to purchase this particular gown. "Let's see... kooky ruffle at my knees! Then it sucks in again.... and then, SMASH CUT to a kooky ruffle at my feet! I won't be able to walk AND I'll look like an extremely formal toilet brush! It's PERFECT!" Listen, Faye, my love, my dream mentor, the woman I want to take on Janice Dickinson in a cage match (nothing against Janice, I just think it would be awesome): No ONE wants to look like cleaning paraphernalia, formal OR casual. Especially at the Oscars. Not even you.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Cameron Diaz

At least Cameron ditched the awful red lipstick and softened up her hair color, although we wish she would get it the hell out of her face:

But otherwise, this is kind of an uninspiring sequel to her strangely bridal post-breakup dress at the Golden Globes. Well, that's not entirely true -- it has inspired me to plug in my iron. More than just the strange sailor neckline, I hate that she looks like she's sewn herself into an enormous linen napkin. Thank God they don't serve a meal at the Oscars, or else we could have been in for an incredibly awkward confrontation when an absent-minded Jessica Biel wiped her mouth on Cameron's collar, and Cameron responded by ramming a champagne bottle in her ear and screaming, "Try to work THAT off by running stairs, bitch!" And then, we're all catfights in lily ponds -- totally our cup of tea, actually, and our money's on Cam (definitely a hair-puller, she looks like she might also be a biter) but when all's said and done, Cam will need a hell of a lot of Oxy Clean to get out the stains. Perhaps she should've let them sponsor her by selling some ad space on her train.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Sally Kirkland

Heather and I only saw one elbow of this outfit while watching the red carpet coverage of the Oscars, and yet we knew: It was Sally Kirkland, she of the generally outrageous, Plant-Earth-inappropriate, Endora-from-Bewitched-inspired wardrobe. And so it was:

Seriously, that is SPECTACULAR. In fact, I don't know that I can even say anything that would add to the experience of experiencing this. Just gaze upon it while you eat your lunch, and toast in its healing, wacky rays. I think that's what she's saying, here, in fact: "REVEL IN MY WACKITUDE, PHOTOGRAPHERS! And catch my new magic show at the Stratosphere at 5pm and 7pm nightly."

Oscar Fug Carpet: Kirsten Dunst

I was endlessly charmed and amused by Kirsten Dunst whipping out from her purse a crumpled copy of a magazine ad in which two M&M candies are impersonating Joan and Melissa, and asking Lady Rivers to autograph it (and then, after digging through the bag and pulling out blister pads for her brother's feet, exposing his secret shame, she went on what we hope was not a fruitless hunt for a pen). The whole piece of tomfoolery only furthered our suspicion here at GFY HQ that Kiki is not only a good sport but probably fun for a night on the town.

Sadly for her, I though, I was neither charmed nor amused by her dress.

I'm a little overwhelmed, to be honest. There is so much happening here. If this were an episode of Deadwood, I would need to watch it twice, once with the subtitles, just to keep up with what the hell that genius Ian McShane is going on about for so long.

For one thing, as ever, I want to hoist her boobs up a tad higher -- look into pulleys, Kirsten, if bras aren't to your tastes. But the rest of it really just makes us wonder if she borrowed this look from a 16-year old Icelandic rodeo clown who is her nation's entry in the Eurovision Song Contest this year. We have the frivolity of feathers contrasted with a prim neckline, and detailing that veers from vertical faux-fringe to the look of creepy tentacles of frost you sometimes see creeping along airplane windows when you fly at a high altitude during the winter. It looks as if it would shatter if she, say, tripped on her feather fireworks and bumped into George Clooney on the... Hey, wait. WAIT A MOMENT. Maybe that is her whole master plan. She's going to slam into Intern George hard enough for her clothes to break and drop off, all in the hope that he'll sweep her off her feet and carry her away in his burly, strapping, medicinal embrace. Clever, Kirsten. Clever. But if he calls in sick tomorrow, we'll know who's responsible, and do you really want to be the reason this one-man hug machine can't do his holy work? Do you? For once, think long and hard, Dunst. And then do the right thing. Listen to whatever instinct possessed you to wear this dress, and do the opposite.

Oscar Fug Carpet: Lisa Ling

I love how Lisa Ling has been all, "I want to make documentaries and do serious news! I'm so glad I'm not on The View anymore!" and yet... will make an exception as far as her disdain for entertainment reporting goes in order to host the Oscar pre-show, which is as fluffy and shallow as it gets. Now, a girl has the prerogative to change her mind, Ling's post-View work has definitely been both valuable and educational, and... you know, who turns down the Oscars? So I get it. "I'm over entertainment reporting.... unless I might get to meet George Clooney" sounds fair enough  to me. It's just a shame that La Ling decided to dive back into the fluffy world of the red carpet in her old prom dress:

There's something about the fabric that gives the impression that she's somehow got a black tablecloth (much as we had at my junior prom, the theme of which, I believe, was, in fact, A NIGHT AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS. Now I'm scared) stuck in the back of her minidress, while he uneven bodice and hem give her that, "I totally just made out with my date in the limo! AWESOME. I wonder if I should let him stick it in" look, perfect for when you're going for that whiff of '92. It screams Serious Journalist Has Fun On Her Day Off, no?

Oscar Fug Carpet: Keisha Whitaker

Keisha Whitaker is a lovely woman, and this canary color looks pretty on her. So we were all set to like this dress, or at least be open to its potential.

And then she turned around, and we learned our lesson about thinking nice thoughts.

Perhaps this wasn't there when she started the evening -- perhaps she's turning around because a photographer noticed a vine creeping up her back, and wanted to warn her that it might have malicious intentions. Come to think of it, this is a trifle Little Shop of Horrors, as reimagined by somebody's daughter with the help of some pipe cleaners. If the flowers spout a Venus Flytrap, surround her body, and yank it down through the red carpet to the depths of pollen-allergy Hell, then we'll know for sure. Somebody please keep an eye on her.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Paulina Rubio

I was going to suggest that Paulina Rubio accidentally donned this dress backwards, but then I realized it wouldn't make a difference: it's hideous either way. It's drawstring bag/grieving clown couture with an element of "I left the iron on and it burned a hole in the garment." And... is that a luggage tag hanging around her neck? Please, somebody, pick her up and ship her back to the "If found, please return to" address.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Bai Ling

Bai Ling Personality No. 8: jellyfish.

That, or she is SERIOUSLY bloated.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Paris Hilton

There are so many ways to go with this photograph of Paris Hilton.

1) Well, at least it's not the kind of cock you expect Paris to drag around with her...

2) Never before has hunting seemed so appealing. Indeed, somewhere in America, Nicole Richie is suiting up in her best bright orange and borrowing a rifle (and, most likely, hiring someone to help her lift it to shoulder-height).

3) Oh, honey, we've already seen your plumage.

4) How unfair that a peacock had to go naked so that Paris Hilton, of all people, could get dressed.

5) We would suspect this is her attempt at playing off of Jon Stewart's "Dick Cheney/Bjork and the swan dress" joke, if we thought she had any idea who Dick Cheney is. Or, indeed, who Jon Stewart is. (They're not Greek enough to make her radar.)

Regardless of which path is the one you think leads to enlightenment, one thing is certainly universally true: She looks more like an aging drag queen than ever.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Pamela Anderson

You know, with Lil' Kim behind bars and unable to fulfill her duties as our nation's captain of decorum, it's thrilling to see first runner-up Pamela Anderson stepping in so assiduously:

Lovely boob tape, dear -- must be industrial strength. But you might want to put the dogs away for a little while. Nobody likes a yappy pup who won't stop making noise and is constantly jumping up and trying to eat your pantleg.

The acting Dread Pirate Parton, who manages to rein hers in so admirably these days (two Oscar outfits, zero embarrassing decolletage), would be beyond horrified.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Haylie Duff

It's not a good sign that the first thing that popped into my head when I saw this picture -- well, after I wondered why Haylie Duff decided to go matriarch-chic here and break into Kathy Hilton's wardrobe -- was, "You know, I really do want to see Transamerica."

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Lizzie Grubman

Ugh. Icky, puckered Lizzie Grubman and her icky, puckered black trim that looks stapled onto the dress as part of some community-service "Gee, sorry I ran over you with my SUV, but I was really tired that night from all the drinking... of WATER... that I was doing" state-mandated craft project sponsored by K-Mart.

Why do people encourage her to leave the house? I can't wait until her overtanned hide turns to chapped leather in about ten years.

Oscar Fugshion: Pocket Watch

I love pockets. I use mine all the time. Much as I am hooked on cute purses, sometimes it's just easier to jam some cash and an ID into your trousers and not have to worry about, say, leaving your purse in the car, or under your dinner table, or the windowsill at Union Station during a fairly high-traffic time of day. Not that any of these things has happened to me.

However, there's a reason evening gowns don't have pockets. Two reasons, actually.

1. Sandra Bullock.

2. Amy Adams

Look at them: Amy and her pretty hair, her pretty smile, and her pretty eyes, and that bizarre breastplate thing on the front of her dress; and Sandy, whose gown has that strange black-mesh stuff that looks like lining gone badly awry, but who has grown into her face with age and looks a lot better now that her tattooed biker husband is making her love herself enough to eat (take notice, starlets). In short, these women, depsite some torso-related dress-design oddities, are lovely.

And yet, they are unable to resist the temptation of the pocket, so they're standing there with their hands jammed into their skirts. It looks ridiculous. It's the sartorial equivalent of smacking one's chewing gum, which makes even the most sophisticated Wrigley addict look like a cow chewing cud. So stop cudding yourselves, ladies, and resist the allure of the headline-grabbing gown pocket that will, in the end, grab you in its awkward clutches.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Marley Shelton

Hilary Swank at the 2006 SAG Awards:

Marley Shelton at the Vanity Fair Oscar party:

Same rumpled-bedsheet idea, slightly different execution. But for a couple reasons, Hilary Swank gets away with it a bit easier.

1) Sure, it wasn't a great concept when Swank did it, but at least she did it first -- meaning she didn't have the benefit of picking up an In Touch and seeing a cautionary photo of somebody attempting to pull off this semi-tragedy. Whereas Shelton had ample chances to stumble upon this photo of Swank, which we saw about 100 times in various magazines and blogs, and think to herself, "Wow, doesn't it look like Hilary only wore that because she's been having a lot of trouble getting out of bed in the mornings, because of her depression about her broken marriage, and so wearing this dress helps her trick herself into thinking she's actually still in bed? Poor Hil. Hope she makes it through. At least she got a pedicure."

2) Bubble cleavage tends to make breasts look fake. Whereas Swank is using the ugly hoo-ha to build up her bust, giving an illusion that there's more under there, Shelton's is pushing things so far in and up that her breasts have that special spherical silicone look we've come to know and love as a sign of implants. And maybe hers are, maybe they aren't, but the point is, it doesn't matter: When something's fake, you rarely want it to look fake. Exhibit A: Hilary Duff's expensive yet rabbity veneers. Exhibit B: Reese Witherspoon's "emotional" Oscar acceptance speech.

3) Seriously, Shelton's dress went way more overboard on all the adornments. Insane. It's the California King sheet set to Swank's full/queen.

4) Swank has the benefit of not wearing a pair of shoes that, until recently, held a well-documented three-year monopoly on Kirsten Dunst's feet and could therefore be construed as so, so, so overdone by now.

5) Trim your bangs, Marley.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Aerin Lauder

Aerin Lauder, whose face is familiar to anyone with a subscription to Vogue,  is Estee Lauder's granddaughter. She's held loads of high-powered jobs at places that make many of the things that you buy at Bloomingdale's and then smear on your face in hopes of holding the wrinkles at bay.  By all accounts, she's fairly down to earth. (And "by all accounts," I mean, "by what I read in W," so take that with the proverbial grain.) At the very least, I know from seeing pictures of her in the many, many glossy magazines I subscribe to, she owns a lot of outfits.

Surely one of them would have worked better than this:

The cut of this dress reminds me of a shirt I own,  aa button-up shirt that I love, but which has an unfortunate tendency to unbutton on me whenever I, say, get out of my car or take my handbag off my shoulder. I am on constant Bra Alert in this shirt.  And as far as Bra Alert goes for Ms Lauder: RED ALERT, AERIN. RED ALERT.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Stephanie Seymour

Never one to exhibit any sense of occasion, Stephanie Seymour followed up last year's Vanity Fair party assfest with another converted piece of lingerie:

I suppose, technically, she's more covered up this year, but it's still only a dress in the loosest sense.

Where last year I felt like she thought she smelled an orgy and came running, this year I think she had choreographed a safari-themed Vegas revue in her head entitled Cheetahs, about adulterous feral, feline femmes, and showed up in costume to woo rich backers with all her "come pitch a tent in my wilderness" jokes.

Oscar Post-Party Fug: Sean Young

Okay, what is going on with Sean Young?

She's too young to be dressing the way she has been lately. This is the Oscars, Sean! You're still hot! Why are you all covered up all the time? Where is the Sean Young of old, who was all audacious and sexy and crazy and fun and mildly unhinged?  How did you go from that to looking mostly Amish all the time? I ask this question seriously: do yo