Overall, an October of which JenCon should be proud

As you've probably noticed throughout the past 11 months, there are a handful of Hollywood women on whom I tend to keep a close watch.

Some of them, Scarlett, Monica, Kim and Jessica, to name a few, hold my interest for no other reason than their physical beauty. Put simply, these women, like this (my new favorite photo from The Sartorialist), are like art -- they're nice to look at from every angle.

Others, for example Katie, Natalie, Audrey, Ali, Rachel, Cate and Sienna, while still quite pleasing to the eye, are the women to whom I turn for style inspiration. They are the ones whose tastes and senses of style are most aligned with - or, as is the case with the last two, whose fashion choices challenge and expand - my own.

And finally, the last tier, a tier I've only recently discovered, includes those women whose figures I believe are the most style-versatile. These are the women who I believe have the legs, the arms, the shoulders, the back, the waist, the muscle tone, the height and just the right proportions to wear anything. I'm trying to work out on paper exactly what my indicators for entrance into this elite group are, because at present, the sole criterion for selection is the not-very-scientific whether or not I picture their figure in my head while I'm running off the two teaspoons of peanut butter that complemented my English Muffin that morning. So far, this category belongs to one woman and one woman only -- Jennifer Connelly*.

And the fact that I don't really care for her as an actress, a human being or a style star should lend credence to her selection as my ideal mannequin. That's right, feminists, to me she's nothing more than an objectified body on which I'd love to play dress-up.

As you'll see below, October was a busy red carpet month for Ms. Connelly. Her wardrobe choices varied from Tory Burch-looking cruise-wear (yick) to a dramatically-draped LBD (swoon) to a dreadful watercolor explosion (what's left to say that hasn't already been said?) to a prim and ladylike, ASJiNE hall-of-famer (double swoon).

Though I'd like to see her wear a little more McQueen and a little less Balenciaga - spokeswoman obligations or not - overall, this was a month of which JenCon should be proud.

At the "Women in Hollywood" party in a bead-trimmed, floral Balenciaga tunic
At the NYC premiere of Reservation Road in a bell-sleeved, ivory satin Versace mini

Arriving at "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" in an asymmetrically draped Balenciaga tank dress

At the Hollywood premiere of Reservation Road in a highly-structured technicolor Balenciaga mini

On the red carpet at the Hollywood Film Festival in slim, belted cherry-red strapless Alexander McQueen
Arriving at "The Late Show with David Letterman" in a mod-style cropped jacket and high-waisted pencil skirt, both by Giambattista Valli

*those on the cusp include Eva Mendes, Catherine Zeta-Jones circa now and Angelina Jolie circa 2004

Dita, darling, let me explain...

I couldn't really tell you why, but I've always found women who tread odd romantic paths, who not only embrace but flaunt their off-beat sexualities for the camera and whose mouths are as filter-free as my own to be intensely attractive.

There's Angie, Monica, Scarlett, Kate, Rosario, Michelle and now, as difficult as it is for me to admit, Evan Rachel Wood.

I tried to shun her, if for no other reason than to show brunette-to-brunette, Michigander-to-Michigander solidarity to the woman whose place in Marilyn Manson's heart she supposedly stole, but this photoshoot, the full NSFW version of which can be found in the upcoming issue of GQ, pushed me up to and past my willpower precipice.

I'm now a fan.

Tarty, bitchy, dark and for lack of a better word, weird, meet Marilyn Manson's newest scratch-your-head conquest, 19 year old acting phenom, Evan Rachel Wood:

Scarlett at her scrum-diddily-umptious-est (pt. II)

The second tranche of Louis Vuitton adverts featuring Scarlett Johansson was released yesterday, and all I can say is, just like the first group, these six photos do absolutely nothing to bring me on-board the the LV popularity train.

The bags are gratuitously emblazoned with the looky-at-my-designer-baggy logo I so can't stand, the clothes - red patent trench and black schoolmarm-meets-Dita-von-Teese pumps aside - have a confusing mix of Gone With the Wind and Boogie Nights influences, and then there are those cumbersome chunky bangle bracelets -- not my thing, any of it.

But at the end of the day, you have that beautiful face, that copious cleavage and a breathstopping melange of sex kitten expressions.

ScarJo may not make me want to fork over $2,395 for a shearling-trimmed top-handle, but she sure has me reaching for the remote to watch (for the billionth time) the opening scene of Lost in Translation...

Not even Cindy could've gotten away with it

I have heard with firsthand authority from three very reliable sources on three staggered occasions - once in the late '80s, once in the mid-'90s and once last Summer - that Cindy Crawford, in person, is the most naturally beautiful celebrity on the block.

The first witness, a then-17 year old high school friend of my brother's, cited (not surprisingly) Cindy's slim, athletic physique as what first drew his attention and then, after closer inspection, dropped his jaw; the second witness, a man of more "seasoned" age and coincidentally the one responsible for my thankfully now-over 15 month binge on Rachael Yamagata music, Anne Sexton poetry and bags upon bags of Tropical Skittles, couldn't get over her skin, bone structure and "perfect posture"; the third, a girlfriend of like age and like taste in girl-crushes, was stopped-short by how effortlessly her clothes fit, both in drape and style ("I never really knew what 'Cindy Crawford style' looked like until I saw her, and then it just hit me over the head.").

Point is, from what I hear and from what I can tell in most every picture I've ever seen of her, Cindy is that rare-looking creature that no matter what she's wearing (or not wearing) elicits the "It looks good on her, but on anyone else..." reaction.

You know what I mean -- the boucle suit, the suspender jeans, the capri pants, those horrendous oxford bootie-heels that are supposed to be so in-vogue for Fall. None of these could do 99.9% of women justice but on someone like Cindy (or my delicious friend O, a picture of whom I wish I could show you) you might be able to eke out a "Yeeeeah, I guess I can see that working" rationalization.

Where is all this going?

Well, I finally saw something today as I returned from lunch at Panache (just off ConnAve by the ABC News building) that not even as-close-to-perfect-as-perfect-comes Cindy could have pulled off.

And it looked a little somethin' like this:

But think black pointy-toed, ankle-strap heels instead of boots and a boxy navy pinstripe blazer atop a denim button-up instead of an olive t-shirt.

As the ladies on GFY often say when there really isn't anything left to say...there are no words.

I'd go out with Eva, too

In case you hadn't heard, Jane, one of the small handful of wry, extraordinarily well-written, substantive-but-not-too-substantive fashion magazines has been "let go" by its parent company, Condé Nast.

I wasn't robbed by a shortened subscription or devastated because Jane was the magazine at the center of my if-I-could-have-any-job fantasy (that would be Marie Claire), but I am nonetheless heartbroken both because the writing was that good and for as long as I can remember, it - along with Lucky - served as my reliable, get-me-through-my-layover one-two punch.

With its subtle feminist message, salacious word-choices, generous mix of low, mid and high fashion promotion and the audacity with which its writers intruded upon celebrities' lives instead of simply recycling the tired "tell us how you became so fierce!" fare you find in every issue of People, Glamour and Cosmopolitan, Jane will no doubt go down in periodical history as the foul-mouthed tomboy of the fashion mag crew.

The hot foul-mouthed tomboy with a brain, ambition, glowing skin and a fantastic rack, that is.

Considering its reputation and penchant for being much more Betsey Johnson than Anna Wintour, it's only fitting that for its farewell issue, editor-in-chief Brandon Holley chose as her cover girl the saucy, "I work hard for my body and yeah, I like it" Cuban treat that is Eva Mendes.

Enjoy, and be sure to remember those three magic words...

Click. To. Enlarge.

Utterly underwhelmed

For those of you who read my musings on a regular basis, you know good and well my devotion to Ms. Holmes goes well beyond the purely physical appreciation I have for, say, Eva Mendes, ScarJo, and even Monica Bellucci.

There's something very rare and very old-school about Katie's calmness, her elegance and her understated neutral-hued style to which I am always attracted and by which I am thoroughly enamored.

But just because the girl carries herself with the kind of grace Hollywood never breeds and doesn't often reward and just because she inspired my can't-live-without-it haircut does not mean she can get away wearing to last night's New York City premiere of Hairspray what I'm pretty sure is the same wide-strapped shirred-bodice black sheath I wore to my 8th grade formal. Granted, the fit is spot-on, the noticeably shortened hem adds a bit of a contemporary, age-appropriate flair (remember, she's only 28) and the round-toed 5-inch Roger Vivier pumps are nothing short of fabulous, but even with all that good working in her favor, taken together, this ensemble, I'm sorry to say it, is just utterly, utterly underwhelming.

If anyone could prepare a comprehensive, persuasive defense of the all-black look, believe me, I'd be on the shortlist. That being said, we need to keep in mind that all-black is not infallible -- a point driven home each time I look at (yawn) ensembles like this one. Not only is this dress devoid of any of-interest features (do shirring and a high-hemline really count?), it also fails to offer up any insight into the personal style of the woman wearing it.

Even with her signature flawless makeup-spare face and tousled-just-right bob, this overall look is at best a boring misstep; at worst, especially for a burgeoning fashionista like Katie, this is an introduction to a pedestrian side of her I had no idea existed and I have no interest in seeing again.

With how great her legs are looking lately and the residual benefit she's probably still enjoying from an amped-up post-pregnancy chest, I would have much preferred to see her choose something with a silhouette like this gold Miu Miu dress, this Milly mini or perhaps even this more daring one-shouldered Michael Kors number.

I'd make an encouraging quip about how I still managed to get my grope full-on in the aforementioned Ann-Taylor-purchased black dress despite its not being the flashiest frock in the Kinawa Middle School cafeteria, but rumor has it Katie went Tom-free to Manhattan, and I certainly wouldn't want to give the impression I was promoting unladylike behavior.

For more of Katie looking 1/3-lovely, 2/3-Caché, see below:

Kim Kardashian makes me feel like a hypocrite

I'm not much for the "tight look."

Big blingy jewelery is so not my thing.

I roll my eyes when I see a woman try ever-so-hard to match her shoes to her handbag.

I don't particularly care for Hervé Léger's signature bandaged-fabric effect.

And when I left my pink phase behind in the Spring of 2002, I not only kissed it goodbye, I tied cement booties to it and drop-kicked it into the Seekonk River.

Yet here at a Miami Fashion Week event on Wednesday night, Kim Kardashian somehow blossoms into the prettiest, most perfectly dressed goddess who ever was.

I just can't think what it is about these pictures that's bewitching me...
Maybe the shiny hair?

No, no, it must be the exquisite eye makeup.

Lean over a bit, hon...that's it, it's your pretty white smile!

Uh-huh, definitely the smile...

Eva-va-va-VOOM!

I just can't get me enough of Ms. Mendes.

Not sure if it's her always glimmered to the hilt nut-brown skin, her sultry you-want-this-don't-you? photog face, those tremendous runner's calves (she claims to run 4 miles a day even on vacation) or her reliably ASJINE-approved sense of asset-flaunting, sky-high-heel-complementing, ladylike style, but whatever it is she's got, I not only want a piece but a wing, a drumstick and a nice juicy breast to go with it.

Perhaps it's that she has so many nice features from which to choose - legs, shoulders, skin, face, hair, arms, back - and so very few flaws - under-the-radar longtime boyfriend, having starred in a Will Smith movie - that I'm simply, utterly and completely in awe. I mean, only Eva could rock a demure, loose-fitting gold sheath, oversized black clutch and neutral slingback platform peep toes, an ensemble that on most women would look ho-hum, and knock it so far out of the park at this past weekend's Valentino-athon in Rome that women like Sarah Jessica Parker, Anne Hathaway and even the usually sublime Sienna Miller (though here, um, well, uh...I'm at a loss) in their much more amped-up gowns, were forced to lower their heads in we're-not-worthy defeat.

Oh god, YES.

Celebrities really do have it good.

Not only do they get to experience the sorts of vacations most of us only read about when we break down and buy an issue of Travel+Leisure at the airport, but they also get a whole lot of free shit.

Free sunglasses, free premium denim, free makeup, free Giuseppi Zanotti resort sandals -- even free custom-made Vivienne Westwood cocktail dresses.

For those of you who share my eye and a magnet-like mind for useless celebrity trivia, you'll recognize right away Dita von Teese's stunning, perfectly-draped-over-her-perfect-body red satin frock as an incarnation of the original runway version in a nude, matte-silk crepe Hilary Duff wore - and I fawned over at exhaustive length - last March.

I love the red lips and nails and how strikingly they offset the burlesque performer's signature Geisha-white skin and jet-black locks, but the shoes, I must admit, were not a Dita-worthy selection. I understand the whole throwback-to-a-different-era look after which she's going, but matchy-matchy then worked about as well as matchy-matchy now.

In short, badly.

Plus, with a shoulder-baring cut such as the one she's donning, an open-toed shoe is nothing if not required, especially given yesterday's 90-degree Manhattan heat.

Next time Dita, just remember you're a celebrity and are expected to indulge in the you-ask-they-give arrangements for which your greedy and beautiful brethren are widely known.

Were I you, I'd have your people ring the Brian Atwood people post-haste.

A *different* kind of wishlist item

Though it is one of the least labor intensive responsibilities of my ASJINE work day, selecting an item to showcase in the daily "If I had a sugar daddy..." feature consistently ranks as one of my most satisfying.

In fact, it's often one of the most satisfying parts of my entire day.

I'm a masochistic dreamer, I guess you could say, one who draws deep-down-in-her-belly pleasure from wanting things so painfully out of reach - the option to place a $1,540 cocktail dress into her virtual shopping cart, Hollywood moment-filled days every day, among others - that the usual how-can-I-swing-this? next-step isn't a consideration. For in my current and most likely forever future, there will be no "swinging" a dress that costs as much as my rent and there will be no cut-and-paste function to insert into my every morning the piano scene from Pretty Woman, the "Escort me by all means, but don't follow me...it's so predatory" slow dance from The English Patient and the Jonathan-finally-finds-the-copy-of-the-Marquez-book-and-goes-after-Sarah realization from Serendipity. Yet day in and day out, I give into those cravings that are not only unlikely to ever be sated, but in some cases, like the one I'm about to describe, where doing so is a physical impossibility.

Both here in my blog and in my daily life, I've always been very forthright - much to my parents' dismay, I'm afraid - about my impassioned views on female beauty. Particularly those lovely bits that rest just below the collarbone and just above the ribcage. Like some men are "leg guys" and some guys are "ass men," I'm without a doubt, in the purely admiring sense, an unabashed "breast girl."

And until a few weeks ago when I came into close contact with perhaps the most enviable pair DNA ever did link together, this affinity, like that which I have for the price-upon-request runway clothes and the tidy romantic comedy endings, was very much an abstract appreciation -- something I could safely dream about without any expectations and without the complication of having to watch others enjoy in front of me that which I could not - and would never - myself be able to enjoy.

But for better or worse, K and her perfectly symmetrical, perfectly teardropped, as perfectly primed for a push-'em-up-and-out bustier as a faded university tee breasts came smack dab into my life. My real life. My daily life. And now I have to deal not only with the awkwardness that is unconsciously staring at my new friend's bosom (though she assures me this is a common "problem" with which she has grown comfortable over the past decade) but I also have to confront an extreme wanting-what-I-can't-have-edness - a desire even the most impressive implants couldn't palliate - not only when I'm in her presence but even when a "K"-scribed e-mail pings my inbox.

Like I would with any uncomfortable quandary, I forced myself to face the problem head-on, and as a result transitioned through several phases, including the disingenuous just-be-happy-for-K phase, the futile what-can-I-do-to-make-mine-more-like-K's phase, the selfish maybe-I-should-stop-being-friends-with-K-so-I-can-go-back-to-pretending-my-breasts-are-the-most-perfect-I've-ever-seen phase, and finally, where I am now, the Dove commercial inspired channel-this-energy-to-finding-something-about-myself-I-love-just-as-much-(or-more)-than-I-love-K's-breasts phase.

So I'm still figuring out exactly what that "something" is upon which I can redirect my singular focus, but at least I'm now at a place where I can genuinely look forward to seeing K (and her beauties) without secretly hoping my memory of their fabulousness was colored by beer gogglery or my tendency toward selectively-positive recall.

Because frankly, as I look at the pictures she sent me as part of my informal therapy, they are that fabulous. There's no getting around it. Her rack is the Monica Bellucci rack of DC.

And as such, they're to be celebrated bra-free in a backless T-Bags graphic print maxi not only by lustful hetero and style-conscious Logan Circle men but also by women who can truly appreciate the beauty that is a large and lovely pair of lay-your-head-here ladybits.

Pretty face + hot body + 9 tatts + porn pout = hung jury

There's no doubt about it, up-and-coming actress Megan Fox (seen here at last night's Hollywood premiere of her new film, Transformers) is one of those stunningly beautiful women, who, even when tatted up and giving off an unmistakable yeah-I-could-be-into-that porn pout, still looks just that -- stunningly beautiful.

But assuming the just-turned 21 year old has the acting chops to move on from '80s cartoon remakes to scripts requiring more range than making "Holy shit! There's a giant primary-colored plastic manbot after us!" faces, she's at a clear disadvantage from other young actresses who don't look as...shall we say, rough and ready. Even with all that natural beauty - her eyes really are that color - even with all the silver and ivory beaded feather-adorned art-deco Collette Dinnigan cocktail dresses and pairs of metallic Louboutin pumps, Megan can't expect to be taken seriously in the Glenn Close, Cate Blanchett, even Penelope Cruz sense if she doesn't hire a glam squad that can:

(1) Teach her a new signature look that does not include sex-me eyes and an "insert here" mouth

(2) Spackle some foundation onto her "shoulder poetry"

(3) Find a way to spin her marriage to Brian Austin-Green - David Silver from "Beverly Hills 90210" - as more a charitable gesture than an actual marriage marriage

For more of Megan looking like a top-earning Vivid Video vixen, see below:

Why I want to live free and die hard

In just two and a half days, one of 2007's most anticipated cinematic events will be realized: Bruce Willis' fourth and final bow as Detective John McClane in Live Free or Die Hard.

The more trailers, interviews, movie clips and premiere photos I sift through, the more pleased I am that I Fandango-ed two in-advance tickets and lined up a spectacular post-work Wednesday for R and me (which includes this dress and this piece of meat) all in honor of an action hero whose legacy, in my opinion, ranks only behind that of Lyon Gaultier, John Matrix and of course, Casey Ryback.

But in addition to Bruce, who looks far more sextacular at 52 than he ever did at 33, 35, or 40, there is another ass-kicking, one-liner-delivering, rapid-firing reason to fork over your $10.25 and spend your entire day's calories and carbs on a jumbo box of tropical Mike & Ikes.

And this one's half-Asian. And looks killer in an evening gown.

I first noticed - correction, I was first entranced by - 28 year old half-Chinese Maggie Q last year in Mission Impossible III when she so elegantly and athletically stepped out of a yellow Lamborghini Gallardo in a Roman courtyard wearing a stunning red satin cut-out dress.

Just like you, I've been waiting nearly 14 long months to see more of her.

To tide you over until Wednesday night, here's a rainbow of Maggie Q in all her hapa gorgeousness in a series of gowns that range from stunning (see sixth and third from last) to highly uneasy on the eyes (see rest):