My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.

"The Oscars aren't going to be like this, are they?" she asked, as Clint Eastwood hucked and hawed and aww shucksed. "Are they serious?"

"Yes, baby. It will be this bad, and yes, in their own sort of way, they are serious," I said as I dug into another Beck's Oktoberfest in mid-January. "Does Jamie Foxx have a fucking tattoo on the back of his head?"


The Golden Globes were a fucking joke this year. I remember ones from the past with Jack Nicholson all pilled up drinking a gin and tonic, Al Pacino sitting there stoned, having not had a haircut in eight months. I remember hand jobs under the circular tables; awkward moments when winners were in the bathroom doing lines on faux pedestal sinks when they'd found out they won best supporting actress in a mini-series or Claritin-D commercial.