Met Ball

Maybe I'm crazy, but I rather like this. She looks like an elementary school Valentine, the kind you would make with red construction paper and paper doilies and Elmer's glue. Except, you know, less smeared with fingerprints, graham cracker crumbs, and glue detritus. Presumably. On the other hand, why is her bodice so m-f-ing crooked? I want to run over to her and yank it up and to the right.

KARL: Hustle, pet. Tonight we RIDE.

KATE: I'm coming, I'm coming, I just... people want photos...

KARL: Photos are lens vomit. You pose for ART. It's like I told Victoria: "You are a still life with melons. BE THE BOWL."

KATE: Okay, "art," then. They want me to let them take some art. How does the dress look?

KARL: Like a swirl of pain. Agony on a cracker as painted by a drooling child. But SHINY. I would drink you if you came with a bendy straw.

KATE: Only a bendy straw?

KARL: Do not pester me. There are stupid questions, and tonight the answer is YOU. How is my jacket? Does it gleam like a gun-toting seal?

KATE: Actually, it kind of does.

KARL: LOOK ALIVE. I think he's got real bullets. Do you need your hair, or can the maid have it for a casserole?

KATE: Ha ha, um, why don't we go inside? These shoes aren't super comfortable. I'm not sure about this plastic stuff. My boyfriend always says...

KARL: Pish. Your boyfriend is life's dental floss. BRUSH.

KATE: He's great, though. He just doesn't like the shoes.

KARL: Poison him and make a necklace of his teeth.

KATE: I trust his opinion.

KARL: Trust is a drunk driver's highway, darling. TAKE THE BUS.

KATE: An open bar will help. It MUST help.

We got a lot of e-mails suggesting that, by wearing blue shoes with an orange-red dress, Katie Holmes might have taken leave of either her vision or her senses.

To me, the color scheme actually makes weird sense with the theme of the event. Wonder Woman certainly didn't shy away from mixing primary colors, for instance, and Superman and Spider Man could never be accused of favoring subtle palettes either. What gives me greater pause is the way this is executed: The pointy, high-cut shoes are a bit clunky for my taste, appearing almost like an afterthought and akin to those heavy old pumps of the 80s that her mother probably gave away fifteen years ago, and she's got the same problem Nicole Kidman had at the Oscars, with the long necklace hooking like a noose around one boob. As for the dress, it photographs with a strange plastic sheen --  like Katie had it made at one of those factories that makes the fake grass you put in Easter baskets, and strands of which, if you have offspring who are anything like I was, you will still be finding down the side of the sofa and stuck to the curtains four months later because the aforementioned kids liked to run around the house wearing the green tufts like fright wigs. (True story. And for added drama, Easter baskets sometimes make great fake bonnets. In case you were wondering.)

I think my problem can be boiled down to: I don't love Mrs. Holmes-Cruise in strong reds, or at least, not when she's got such a chiseled, structured haircut that competes with the dress for total domination over her face. That gown is screaming so loudly for attention that the rest of her becomes mute. Which she's probably used to in her family life, given that she spawned one of the cutest celebrity kids in recent memory and is married to a couch-surfing zealot, but which she shouldn't have to put up with when it comes to her wardrobe. Her pretty face deserves better than to be an afterthought.

INTERN GEORGE: Hello, Giorgio. Julia, you look lovely.

JULIA: So do you, George. Happy birthday!

GIORGIO ARMANI: BIRTHDAY! HOW DELICIOUS! LIKE CHOCOLATE FROSTING ON SKIN!

GEORGE: Funny you should mention that, because... I mean, are you WEARING chocolate frosting? You look awfully tan. Like, abnormally tan even for you.

JULIA: Actually you both look sort of unusually brown tonight.

GIORGIO: I AM A CHOCOLATE-FROSTED CAKE OF A MAN! PUT A CANDLE IN MY EAR AND BLOW ME OUT! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

GEORGE: Yeah, Sarah bought me some bronzer for my birthday. I'm not sure why.

GIORGIO: Because you are PALE! LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE WASTING AWAY BEFORE MY EYES! SOMEBODY PLEASE BURNISH THE GEORGIE!

GEORGE: Is he talking to himself now, or me?

JULIA: Sometimes I can't tell.

GIORGIO: GOOD BOY!

JULIA: Go on, George. Go with the man.

GEORGE: Pipe down, Roberts. Maybe he's talking to YOU.

GIORGIO: QUICK, SOMEBODY, SQUEEZE SOME SUMMER ONTO HIS FACE! PUREE A YACHT AND SPREAD IT LIKE PASTE!

GEORGE: Oh my GOD, if I put on any more bronzer, people will start calling me Leatherhead for REAL this time.

JULIA: Let's just back away and go get some champagne. We have much to celebrate. You're looking great, everyone's forgotten about your last movie already, and you have an exciting internship that affords you new and wonderful mail-answering, foot-rubbing, and mixology opportunities every day.

GEORGE: Perfect. On three, let's escape. 1....2...

GIORGIO: WHEEEEE!

GEORGE: Close enough. RUN!

Dear Piper:

Bai Ling and Bjork are undoubtedly super and in many ways heroic, but creating a Bjorkling cocktail with a splash of Sharon Stone and a shot of Arquette -- while an impressive feat of mixology -- is a REALLY loose interpretation of the Met Ball's chosen inspiration. If it turns out that you're not observing the theme but are, rather, simply living out your passion project of giving Princess Leia a Gatsby-esque upgrade... well, you might sell it better if you smiled. And blotted your lipstick.

MISCHA: DUDE!

MARGHERITA: Hello!

MISCHA: Aren't we an awesome pair?

MARGHERITA: Could these sacks we're wearing BE any more festive?

MISCHA: What, so you're Chandler Bing now?

MARGHERITA: Who was your tailor? One of the Olsen twins?

MISCHA: Who was yours? Dolly Parton's bedding designer?

MARGHERITA: Is that bodice oozing down your front?

MISCHA: Did you know I found last night's panties hidden behind that dustruffle on your chest?

MARGHERITA: Did YOU know those sleeves are illegal in 30 states?

MISCHA: How did your dress get its manslaughter charges dropped?

MARGHERITA: What's your superhero theme -- the She-Hulk?

MISCHA: Feeling blind today,  Blunder Woman?

MARGHERITA: This was fun; want to do it again next year?

MISCHA: Should we agree to get our dresses fitted next time?

MARGHERITA: Would there be ANY fun in that?

MISCHA: Does this at least mean I can eat the canapes tonight?

MARGHERITA: Do you have to ask?

Bless that Victoria Beckham. She continues to fuel my suspicion that all her nutty getups are merely a ploy to make people look at her, because she knows otherwise we'll all be gazing lustily at the prime cut of man-loin she married.

I'm not entirely sure where the theme comes into play here -- what is she evoking? Nightie Girl? Captain Bedjacket? I Wonder How She's Keeping Her Bits And Pieces Hidden Woman? Not that the superhero shtick was mandatory; just that you'd think wearing a glorified bathrobe wouldn't be Vicky's first choice unless it meant something. Which is precisely why I hope it means absolutely NOTHING except that our girl Vicky wanted people to stare at her all night while they tried to interpret her translucent whim. Naturally, the whole thing only makes me love her more. Pop a veil on her head and she could skulk around Salem for MONTHS on Days of our Lives, haunting the evil Stefano and dropping strange clues at very public places without anyone noticing, despite her unconventional garb. If we have to lose Passions and its castrating serial killer/drunk surgeon reattaching certain organs backwards/Erection of Doom storyline, then at LEAST promise me Posh hurling poisoned paper airplanes at Roman Brady. It's the least the Fates can do.

And things had been going so well!

I am perplexed by the fact that she seems to have her wrap tucked into the top of her gown as some kind of impromptu sleeve, which is making her look weirdly wider than she actually is (which is:  not at all), but it doesn't help that she looks INSANELY cranky. What happened in the car on the way over? Did she and Josh argue over the last of the Flaming Hot Cheetos? (Understandable. I can't stop eating those things even though they've been scientifically proven to make my stomach hurt. I am convinced they're dusted with crack.) Did the driver ask her if she's knocked up yet? (Also understandable, yet none of our business. Doesn't he know that you just closely study the waistline/drinking habits of every woman of child-bearing age and then speculate behind their backs?) Did Anna Wintour beat her in a footrace to the open bar? What up, Fergie Ferg? I secretly kind of love you now! Look alive!

ASHLEY: People will get this, right? That I'm going as a superhero's VICTIM? With the ripped clothes?

CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTIN: POW!

MARY-KATE: You know who'd have loved this? Frankie Sinatra. Oh, he was a card.

ASHLEY: What?

LOUBOUTIN: ZAP!

M-K: It all reminds me of the time I did Carson with a lit cigarette in my hair. How McMahon did laugh! He was all hands, that Eddie. And what a tongue!

ASHLEY: I don't understand.

LOUBOUTIN: KER-BLAM!

M-K: Somebody get me a scotch, neat, and make it a double. God, that reminds me of that night with Carol Channing and the Hardy Boys. I've got stories about that hussy that would make your toes curl.

ASHLEY: How is it that we're related? Sometimes I think this whole thing is a bizarre accident.

LOUBOUTIN: WHAMMO!

M-K: It's like Bette Davis used to say: "If you can't take off your clothes, then it's not worth having dinner." Or was that Paris Hilton?

ASHLEY: The worst part is, people might think you're ME. Clearly I have to dye my hair again.

M-K: You want to talk about buying new drapes? Let me tell you about the day Phyllis Diller came over for canasta and absinthe -- we'd both been having these WICKED hot flashes, see, and...

LOUBOUTIN: SPLAT!

ASHLEY: Time to go.

Note number one for Eva Longoria Parker:  You have GOT to blend your makeup a bit better. Your forehead is way paler than your shoulders and it is weird, like you've got the forehead of a vampire but the neck of a marginally talented actress. You've got to make your Makeup Bitch blend! Blend! Or is it possible that you've crossed your Makeup Bitch one too many times and she's now making you pay by doing you up like the Cranky Undead? In which case: e-mail us, Makeup Bitch. We'd like to buy you a box of wine.

Otherwise, I have a query for you:

Oh, Rachel:

Why so Amish? Why are you hiding your lithe little light under a bushel? (I am including your bangs in the bushel, by the way.) Have you contracted a terrible disease which makes your skin shrivel up should Anna Wintour gaze upon it? Have you taken a vow of extreme modesty? Are you in the midst of a secret but terribly steamy love affair which has left your entire body riddled with hickeys? Are you just really cold?  I HAVE to know.