Hollywood Drowns in Its Own Crap, Vanishes. News at Eleven.
by James Killough
I didn’t watch the Golden Globes last night, not only because I don’t have a TV, but because Tuttle and I had something of a PFC editorial meeting about this blog’s new format, after which Kimball and ten others come over for a potluck dinner. I believe I drank three bottles of wine, so if I sound as unfunny and needlessly venomous as Ricky Gervais in this piece, you know why.
We did half-heartedly keep up to date with the awards via a live blog from the Guardian on my laptop, but nobody was really interested. I barked out winners every now and then to almost zero interest, which is notable because we were in Hollywood and half the party was involved in The Business to one degree or the other—okay, one guy shoots porn. Details.