Come showtime, Murray Hill entertainingly toasted and roasted me, Bridget Everett belted a song about her "canhole," and Julie Atlas Muz provided a sophisticated flesh feast. Cohost Rosie Perez chatted up Ivana Trump, and by 1 a.m., when Cazwell took the stage, there was a whole new wave of hotties and nutjobs. By then, my butt was cracking from all the sincere smiling.
photo: Courtesy Film Four & DNA Films Limited
Forrest Whitaker in Last King of Scotland
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Gossip columnist's fab book party
Photo gallery by Tricia Romano
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But wait, back to the awards stuff! The Golden Globes were long and fascinating and long and sparkly and dull and long. They were both a serious harbinger of the Oscars and a maddeningly loosey goosey summit of stars and their favorite cocktails. My chronological reactions to the telecast: CLOONEY cracks that Leo is the year's best supporting actress. Does he know something? . . . Jennifer Hudson actually wins that category, then "Listen" loses for song. Beyonce looks like she‚s been shot in the crotch twice . . . Renee is squinting so hard WARREN BEATTY probably looks young to her . . . Even without narrowing one's eyes, Reese looks about 12 and skinnier than a fingernail. (Well, she just lost 160 pounds—you know, Ryan Phillippe.) . . . CAMERON looks like she fell off a gay wedding cake. JUSTIN looks like he needs one . . . SALMA and Penelope are both there, probably making eyes at each other. Or maybe they're the same person . . . Meryl neglected to thank the one individual she couldn't have done it without—ANNA WINTOUR . . . Eddie Murphy is suddenly the most dignified one in the whole room—no, the whole business. What a sick world! . . . Annette is holding a glass as she loses. She's sipping harder as she loses a second time. One more awards show and she'll need a cold compress . . . Peter Morgan starts out with anti Iraq remarks and is quickly told "Please wrap up." Few were applauding him anyway—half because they didn't want to be "controversial" and the other half because they didn't get it. . . . PRINCE got stuck in traffic—yeah because he stopped it in that outfit.
Ugly Betty's mother looks OK. Dad must be a beast . . . Not one person has mentioned Martin Luther King. They're too busy thanking their makeup artists, God, and Paramount. . . SACHA BARON COHEN saves the night with his tribute to "the anus and testicles of my costar." I cry....Marty's butt and testes are fine, but he must get rid of those eyebrows by Oscar time. Plus Helen needs to be way less composed and Forest has to come up with something more focused than "wow, wow, wow." But otherwise, everything's right on track. Point me toward tomorrow. (Sorry to end so abruptly, but I was getting a "please wrap up" signal.)
