Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps its just Monday. But this shot of Julianne Moore on the cover of Paris Vogue makes me go, well, ewww. Now I love Julianne. I think she’s a fantastic actress, appears to live a down-to-earth life and is just gorgeous as all get out. But this photo, with her leopard-skin panties and unbuttoned blouse, is the high-end equivalent of the paparazzi upskirt. I know and respect that our European friends have a different, less Puritanical, view of the body. And thank heavens for that. But how is a crotch shot ever classy? Even fully covered it makes me want to go all grandma on Julianne and say, “Oh honey, cross your legs. You don’t want to give people the wrong idea.” I mean when even Madonna has the good sense to keep ‘em closed, so to speak, for a rival French glossy, you know some unspoken boundary of modesty has been crossed. But again, maybe it’s just me. Or Monday. Perhaps after some coffee and a danish, I’ll be like, “Damn, look at Julianne’s cooter. Awesome!”
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