Is it me, or does it seem like a bunch of red carpet events that nobody used to give two shizzes about are suddenly the fashion events of the year? The PR vultures of the world are officially succeeding in their evil quest for full-fledged celebwhore armageddon. Time to stock up on those bottles of Evian and tightly sealed jars of beluga caviar.
Coachella? Sorry I’m not sorry, but seeing washed-up Disney Channel stars dressing up like Woodstock attendees on OxyContin does not make me want to go out and purchase fringed American Apparel bandeau tops. It makes me want to barf on Miley Cyrus.
The White House Correspondents Dinner? I really can’t complain about having the entire cast of the Hunger Games running willy nilly up and down Connecticut Avenue. But seeing Newt Gingrich rubbing elbows with Kate Hudson brings me to think it might be time to move to Kazakhstan.
Last night graced us with another such travesty: The Costume Institute Gala.
One dark and stormy night over a hot witch’s brew made from the poor souls of size-8 normals, Anna Wintour, Kunty Karl, Lizzy Grubman, Rachel Zoe, and the rest of their legion of demon fashion masterminds schemed a way to make themselves forever relevant, no matter how much people tired of seeing their sternums peeking through their plunging necklines.
Hence we have the Costume Institute Gala, of which PopSugar is currently featuring close to 600 photographs of semi-relevant movie stars, not-at-all-relevant “socialites,” and 6 foot tall Eastern European models standing beside 5 foot tall Asian clothing designers, all of whom donned garments that required over 1,000 hours of sequin-stitching and lace-appliqueing by people in Micronesia who would pay three goats just to get a burlap sack to wear.
Nevertheless, there were some fascinating frocks afoot that I feel compelled to feature on our blog today.
Bianca Brandolini D’Adda
How she got the invite: Italian royalty who just happened to be born with supermodel bone structure and who now gets to ride around in tricked-out Fiatts with the one and only Lapo Elkann.
I effing hate you factor: 10 of 10 Giselles. Say it with me: NOT.FAIR.
How she got the invite: Polish model who apparently does not wear underwear.
I effing hate you factor: 4 of 10 Giselles. She looks real hungry for a pierogi. That can’t be fun.
How she got the invite: Classic American designer’s wife-piece who is not named Ricky Lauren.
I effing hate you factor: 2 of 10 Giselles. 1 point for being RICH, another point for almost kind of maybe pulling off that ensemble? Minus 8 points for making your husband look like a serioso midge.
How she got the invite: Another rich bitch who won the genetic jackpot. There is no justice in the world.
I effing hate you factor: 8 of 10 Giselles for obvious reasons. -2 points for mucking up an otherwise lovely getup with what looks like one of those gloves that people who handle large predatory birds wear.
How she got the invite: Playing a Nazi defector in Inglorious Basterds, which gives her major points in the Book of Babygirl. Also, getting to be Pacey’s full-time arm candy.
I effing hate you factor: 9 of 10 Giselles. Possibly best dressed of the night. -1 point for garment that a person with boobalahs could never, ever pull off.