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March 01, 2007

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.

Posted by Heather at 08:21 AM in Oscars | Permalink

February 28, 2007

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!

Posted by Heather at 03:01 PM in Oscars, Well Played | Permalink

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.

Posted by Jessica at 02:09 PM in Oscars | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 01:24 PM in Oscars | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 11:37 AM in Oscars | Permalink

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.

Posted by Jessica at 10:14 AM in Oscars | Permalink

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.

Posted by Heather at 09:14 AM in Oscars | Permalink

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. 

Posted by Jessica at 08:21 AM in Oscars | Permalink

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?

Posted by Heather at 07:51 AM in Oscars | Permalink

February 27, 2007

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.

Posted by Heather at 04:01 PM in Cate Blanchett, Oscars, Well Played | Permalink

 

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