oncurrently, I wonder if The Next Big Thing is looking faintly like you stole your mother's best cocktail dress and her fanciest shoes, are trying to crash the red carpet because you heard there's an open bar, and are three seconds away from punching anyone who asks to see your invitation. I'm thinking a few inches up on the hem, shoes that fit, and a smile might've made this work a tiny bit better -- and maybe even her own pixie cut rather than a David Bowie bouffant -- but maybe I'm not giving this enough credit, because at the end of the day, the dress ITSELF might be kind of awesome. Still, somehow, I just can't shake the idea that she's wearing purloined goods and has a shiny new switchblade in her purse for the first person who taps her on the shoulder and asks who she's wearing. I pray to God that person is not Joan Rivers, because America needs Joan Rivers. I hope I am that sassy at seventy-six. ... Wait, what were we talking about again? Oh yes:
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