I’m adoring everything about Nicole Kidman’s outfits so far at Cannes. She looks as gorgeous as Grace Kelly.
From her faux-hawk…
This completely terrifies me, but I saw photographs of both Mary Kate Olsen and Selma Blair wearing Birkenstocks on the Daily Mail this morning.
Could the ugliest trend from my high school years be coming back in style? If so, I need to get a pair immediately.
One of the benefits of studying art history throughout college is that I have an excellent memory for remembering pictures. Today, I put that skill to use finding photographs of celebrities, and I think that everyone can agree that it’s a tragic waste of my education.
Let’s just say that, if pressed, I could probably list, in order, every single outfit that Katie Holmes has worn since June 29, when she announced her divorce from Tom Cruise. I could also probably list every outfit she’s worn to go see a movie with Suri since April.
I like this outfit very much, and I would like Katie Holmes to donate it to me for being obsessed with her. Thank you very much.
I’m not sure how they always manage to do it, but right when I’m doing completely fine, my family always manages to steal my happiness from me.
Through a chain of events this week, they’ve weighed me down with a familiar weariness. The kind of thing that makes it hard for me to lift my arms. My chest, it’s heavy, right at the base of my throat. In the morning, I think I can’t get up, but then again, I also can’t sleep. Even writing is becoming impossible.
Still, I’m going to write on this stupid fucking blog! Forgive me.
So, Cannes has been this past week. Although it used to be a classy affair—or at least it used to seem like that to me—it now seems an eddying point for the flotsam that jams the flow of news in the tabloid media.
So, I was going to live blog the Grammy’s last night, but Caleb forbade me from doing so, because for him, sitting next to me while I’m snickering and ignoring him is boring. Weird, right?
Soon after he laid down the law, he went out to go get us some ravioli for dinner, and I was left to my own devices. I obeyed his wishes for ten minutes, but then found myself with so many things to say. For instance, at first I was like, oh, that’s weird that LL Cool J is doing the intro, who gives a shit about him. And then I was like, holy shit, is LL Cool J hosting this thing? Because seriously, who gives a shit about him.
So I ran over to my bag to pull out my laptop. Just as I was opening it, Caleb walked through the door. “Oh no you don’t,” he said.
A bottle of wine later, he was a little bit numb to what I was doing, so I picked up my phone, and started Tweeting. You can read some of what I wrote here. For a few minutes, I went fucking nuts, and then he realized that I was up to something. “Are you on Tweeter?” he asked me. “No you don’t!” He really said Tweeter. And then he hid my phone from me.
So, sadly, you can’t read every single thought that I had during that mess of an awards show that I loved watching with every fiber of my being. Especially the 60 seconds when The Civil Wars sang their pretty little ditty of a duet in perfect harmony, after which I bought their entire album. I love tinkling guitars.
As a balm to soothe my heart ache, I’ll do some fashion analysis. Here it goes.
I think the clear winners of the evening were Sophia Grace & Rosie, who do this cover of Nicki Minaj’s “Superbass,” in which they prove that even toddlers can sing, dance, and rap better than Nicki herself, especially in live performance. They served as correspondents for the Ellen show all evening.
I was going to do some SAG Red Carpet analysis on Sunday night, but then I got caught up watching the series finale of “Khloe and Kim Take New York.” I tried so hard to get my heart to break for Kim Kardashian and the unraveling of her marriage, but her face doesn’t move, so it was hard for both of us to feel any emotion.
Instead, I waited for like, some moment of truth, but like, I just didn’t know what to do because like, nothing happened until like the very end when Kim sat on Kris’s lap, and said that they like needed to talk, because Kim didn’t want Kris to move into her apartment in Los Angeles. JUST FUCKING NEEDED TO TALK? NO DIVORCE OR I HATE YOU? So I turned that bullshit off with five minutes left in the episode, and soon after, fell into a deep, dark 24-hour depression.
I sometimes like the SAG red carpet because the stars get a little bit wacky, given that it’s not the Oscars or the Golden Globes. Also, some of the TV people are invited, and those are the actresses I really care these days given that television is the best, and movies almost universally suck.
I actually have no ideas what the SAG awards are, and what kind of prizes they give—tiaras for best attitude? cash for most moveable face? trophies for being famous?—but I have to say, it can’t be that high class if Claire Danes or the Downton Abbey girls weren’t there, but Ashlee Simpson was. Irregardless, people wore dresses, which I will discuss below.