Live from the Red Carpet: The 2004 Golden Globe Awards
Joan Rivers lets us know that when she scratches her cheek, it means the celeb she's talking to looks "like crap." Why can't TV be two-way so she can see me eyeing her Cruella DeVil-in-a-thrift-shop get-up and clawing my way through to my molars?

Golden Globe Arrivals
All this time I've mocked Joan, Melissa and E! for their tradition of flubs and naming mishaps, and here we have NBC, Dick Clark and a notably slicker, smoother, more professional production. And my God, but it's coma-inducingly dull. There ain't enough espresso in the world. Back to Joan and her sequined-yenta routine.

Golden Globe Awards
Three hours and counting, people:

8:00 — It just occurred to me: Why is all this tape-delayed on the West Coast? We're being punished for being here? Do they realize we can tell the sun's out on TV, but not outside, or do they — wait... what the %&#@ is this song? "Clint is making my day, she's from Freaky Friday"? Rob Lowe, Your Snow White Oscars shame is forgotten and forgiven. In fact, this crap makes it look like Aida.

8:05Tim Robbins wins the first Globe for... aw, hell — if you guys want a blow-by-blow, click here.

8:14 — How long's Renee Zellwegger been talking?

8:26The Office wins! No way! (That's the most excited I'll be all night.) Man, does it deserve it. And let me take this opportunity to once again beg: Please don't make an American version of this.

8:30Angels in America wins! (Yes, I lied about the excitement.) Man, does it deserve it. (Now, why wasn't Justin Kirk nominated again?)

8:35 — Charm and political bite? Meryl Streep wins my own personal award for best speech.

8:50 — What more to say? If Jeffrey Wright hadn't won for Angels in America, I was gonna turn this thing off.

9:04Bill Murray's still a very funny man. But why didn't he thank Scarlett Johansson?

9:14Ricky Gervais! Ricky Gervais! Ricky Gervais! (Remember, I lied.)

9:23Gwen Stefani doesn't win a thing for her Ultraman/Soviet bobsled team-inspired 'do. But she oughtta.

9:35Sofia Coppola accepts. And what did Scarlett Johansson do to people on that set anyway?

10:07Peter Jackson. After pulling off what he did with those three movies, anyone else would've been a crime.

10:15Al Pacino. Absolutely. And he didn't even have to chew the scenery to do it.

10:48 — Someone finally remembers how to say Scarlett Johansson.

10:53Lord of the Rings! As Howard Dean would say, yeeeeeaaaahhharghh!

11:00 — A night may come when a TV writer can stare at a glowing cathode-ray tube for five straight hours with no ill effects. But it is not this night. Oy, does my head hurt.

Cold Case
Points for using the Ella Fitzgerald-Louis Armstrong duet of "Stars Fell on Alabama" and The Ravens' "Lilacs in the Rain," even though those songs were recorded in the years after the murder occurred (which, admittedly, probably bothers only the music historians in the audience — and freaks like me). But points off for throwing in the obligatory cheesesteak for local flavor. ("Hey, it's Philly — cheesesteaks! Soft pretzels!"). And that one didn't look nearly greasy enough to bother with anyway.

Curb Your Enthusiasm
Larry worries about pushing an elastic cuff up his arm because it'll lose its stretchiness, and he's the crazy one? Try telling me that next time I reach for a paper towel and water dribbles all the way to my elbows because of saggy sleeves.

The L Word
Ah, lesbians. Some promiscuous, all thin, all beautiful — running around in skimpy clothing, having spontaneous sex and seducing the new-to-L.A. straight girl into cheating on her boyfriend... and she's also thin and beautiful. When a group of guys in the San Fernando Valley come up with this stuff, it's porn. When women do, it's "groundbreaking." (And when networks do, it's Melrose Place.) My lesbian friends and their circles include a certain percentage of homely or dumpy buds, just as all social circles do. However, I still respect Bette for her ethical stand on the Jenny-Marina situation. And I certainly hope poor Tim notices that pesky laser-site dot flitting around his chest, zeroing in on his heart, and manages to sidestep before the trigger's pulled. But you know he won't.


The Big Yellow Taxi of Justice rolls on. I love Hack not because it breaks any rules, but because it follows them. Like the one that says when someone scrambles over a chain-link fence, his pursuers must either catch him at that point or let him get away because they're unwilling or unable to work that hard. Or when the two surly cops are introduced, they must be the ski-masked perpetrators of the vicious crime spree because that's what happened in Magnum Force. Perfect for a Saturday night when my brain's just not up to handling red herrings, surprises, or anything else requiring thought. (And no cheesesteaks!)

Parents: the Anti-Drug Ad — "The Investigator"
Y'know, I don't think this is an upcoming John Waters farce or a Beastie Boys video after all.


What's On
Here I am at a friend's apartment, watching myself and colleague Daniel Coleridge on the TV Guide Channel's "Watercooler" segment of the new What's On. Their toddler looks from me to the me on the screen, back again, then back to me, all wide eyes and bafflement. Now, when this kid's object-permanence development is screwed up, who do you think they're gonna blame?

A mugger takes Carol's ring at gunpoint before the first commercial break. Hey, things can only get better from here. (While I'm thinking of it, didn't she look much cuter with short hair? Though supposedly men prefer women with long locks, so I'm probably alone in that.) Then into the middle of all of this steps... Clay Aiken. Huh? I haven't seen a musical celeb planted with that absurd a clank since... well, I'm gonna have to go back to The Doobie Brothers on What's Happening!!

Garnier Nutrisse Ad
"My hair color does something yours doesn't." — Sarah Jessica Parker.

True. Whatever it is. True.

American Hot Rod
Hot rod maven Boyd Coddington's first challenge is a down-on-its-luck (real down) '56 Chevy, and the first complaint is all the body rot. Right there you know ol' Boyd's let himself get soft in warm, dry Southern California. Where I grew up, rust wasn't a blight on a car — it was the car. My dad drove a '73 Pontiac Catalina wagon and a '75 Plymouth Valiant (the "custom" model, mind you) and after enough suburban-Philadelphia winters both were down to about 10 percent original steel and 90 percent porch screen, body putty, touch-up paint and even a little duct tape. And you never washed the road salt off because it was the only thing holding it all together. Boyd's work is impressive, alright. But he's no Ira J. Peck.