I watched the Golden Globes tonight. I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I knew that if I didn’t, I would hate myself in the morning, because when everyone at the office was talking about Lara Flynn Boyle’s hideous get-up, I’d feel left out. Then I realized I don’t work in an office, and it didn’t really matter, but still. I had to watch anyway, because that’s the kind of masochist I am.
I have only a few words, and, in some cases, special thanks, to share with several of the STARS in attendance this evening. They are as follows:
To Renée Zelwegger: Honey, please please please stop crying. It threatens to puff your cheeks up to even more mump-filled monstrosity and seal shut those twin slits that masquerade as eyes. Please also know that when you say, about the crumpled piece of paper that contains your list of thankees, “I barely wrote this legibly because I didn’t think I’d need it”, you, like Richard Gere before you, are not fooling anyone.
To anyone and everyone who tearfully said anything akin to, “Thanks for believing in this project” or “Thanks to everyone who made this dream come true” or “I’m just thrilled to be nominated”: Just stop it. Shut up. That cliché is as tired as the feigned shock that played on your face when your name was called as the winner.
To Harrison Ford: Your glazed, paralyzed face could take lessons from Heath Ledger’s, whose mouth’s spasms were more alive than the words that sleepwalked out of it.
To Sharon Stone: I wish I could say that the combination of your lunatic behavior and monstrous outfit was a welcome departure from the rest of the zombarina parade (led by the everlean Lara Flynn Boyle in a pink getup that I think I wore in ballet class circa 1969), but alas, I wish you had availed yourself of the Valium that Jack Nicholson admitted he took. (You should also work on your triceps. All that arm flailing … not a good thing.)
To all the ladies (Goldie Hawn, Susan Sarandon, Courteney Cox, among others in the Breast Brigade) who insisted on wearing dresses cut down to where a hemline would normally rise: Stop it. Your bralessness left me speechless. That goes for you, too, Debra Messing. Please, all of you, have a little more, yes, grace.
To Bono: You repelled me with the references to New York City as “her” and “she”, but you managed to slip in the word “fuckin'” when accepting the award for best song, so for a few seconds I didn’t have to hate you.
To Matthew McConaughey: Nice bronzer.
To Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas: Please try to look alive, even though I suspect that one of you is made of wax and the other of marzipan.
To Meryl Streep: Sadly, darling, you still can’t dress to save your life. In fact, tonight’s ensemble of black pants with a sheer, chiffony train, almost literally tripped up your lovely co-stars Julianne Moore and/or Nicole Kidman. And please, that thing you did to demonstrate that you’re just a normal girl like the rest of us — you know, where you conspicuously reached inside your spangly silvery shirt with each hand to arrange each errant breast before you started your acceptance speech — let’s just say you let me down as much as your bra did you and yours. Yes, you received a Golden Globe, but I don’t want to see you handling the two inside your shirt.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank Gene Hackman, the recipient of the Cecil B. DeMille award (I think it was for lifetime achievement). Thank you, Gene, for being absolutely normal and graciously accepting the award without a shred of pomp and/or circumstance. Thank you for not reading a speech from a sheet of paper. Thank you for not being Richard Gere, who apparently thinks the Globe revolves around him.
P.S. Special surprise thanks go to Robin Williams, who presented the award to Gene Hackman along with Michael Caine. Thank you, Robin, for realizing, for once, that it wasn’t your turn in the spotlight.