Whether you watched last night's Emmys on a dusty television set or on a shady internet stream prone to buffering and choppy playback (21st century chic, wave of the future, etc.), you probably noticed that TV's landmark three hour salute to TV seemed perkier than years past. And while a number of harsh elements threatened to barrel us to boredom -- like the dual monotone of Jennifer Love Hewitt and Patricia Arquette ("LOL! We both play mediums!" cried JLoHew as we eyed that Ambien hungrily) and Jeff Probst's acceptance speech (seriously -- over Padma Lakshmi?), the night was easily redeemed by over a dozen people. And one of them didn't even need to actually be present for her act of valiance.

After eight years spent lampooning everyone from Dakota Fanning to Kim Jong-il on NBC’s enduring sketch comedy show Saturday Night Live, actress Amy Poehler allows the ghost of closets past to catch up with her. After the jump, the comedienne's biggest sartorial slip-ups.

● Margaret Cho gives her tips for a fantastic trip. Let’s just say it involves Xanax and a vibrator. [OUT]
● Carine Roitfeld has dedicated next month’s French Vogue to model Lara Stone. Nan Goldin, Hedi Slimane, and Peter Lindbergh among others work their magic on the model. [Fashionolgie]
● See what the National Fisheries Institute has to say about Jeremy Piven’s sushi-gate interview with Diane Sawyer. [Youtube]

"What's a Spank Rock?" left.

Last night, Radar magazine squeezed industry types and ironists into two floors of the New Museum on Bowery to celebrate its picks for the year’s most inspiring “Rogues, Renegades, and Rule-Breakers.” Radar's list of "The New Radicals" is a palatable buffet of eye candy, from transsexual Candis Cayne from ABC’s “Dirty Sexy Money,” to The Squid and the Whale’s Jesse Eisenberg. But, as it would appear, the party was just another place for people to stand around, pretending to look bored.

“Are you having a good time?” I ask a willowy model with perfectly stringy hair. We’re on the seventh floor, along with everyone else. “It’s too crowded,” she bemoans, as an errant elbow knocks into her unidentified Svedka “specialty” drink. She pretends not to notice. “And there are no interesting people here.” I blow her a kiss and she topples over.