The Daughter Made Me Do It

So Precocious Daughter and I are in the midst of Best Picture Blitz 2014. We're trying to see all nine of the movies nominated for the Best Picture Oscar.

All nine of them.

American Hustle

Captain Phillips

Dallas Buyers Club

Gravity

Her

Nebraska

Philomena

12 Years a Slave

The Wolf of Wall Street

 

 

 

So far we've seen - and I've written about - American Hustle, Captain Phillips, and August: Osage County.

 

 

Wait a minute.

 



 

 August: Osage County is not nominated for Best Picture.

 

 

 

NONE OF YOU CALLED ME OUT ON THIS!

 

 

Bill the Butcher, you're exempt from my ire, as I know your feelings about Hollywood. The rest of you let my daughter con me into seeing a movie that was not on the list.

 

This is deeply upsetting to my chi.

 

 

I know why she did it. She wants to see everything that has Benedict Cumberbatch in it. Even if he has a very small part and is a weenie of a character who drops completely out of the movie with no resolution to his storyline.

 

I can't believe all of you (except Bill) were complicit in this chicanery.

 

 

But it is nominated for two awards (Actress and Supporting Actress, of course), so it wasn't a total wash. And it was a damn good movie.

 

So...PDaughter and I have seen two, not three, of the Best Picture Nominees.

 

She is so tricky.









 

 

Next up is Dallas Buyers Club.

 

*checks list*

 

Yes, Dallas Buyers Club.

My Phone's Name Is HAL

Today on my Facebook mobile app, I had this conversation with Drummer Boy (who doesn't want to be publicly ID'd in my blog, so I've cleverly disguised his identity):

Immediately after this exchange, Facebook froze, Google stopped working, and I got a weird pop-up in a language I didn't recognize.

It heard me.

Throwing shade at a technology you're completely
dependent on is not a good idea, Dave.

Great. Now my smartphone is HAL, or Damien, or some other creepy-ass movie character that gave me nightmares as a kid.

I am not jumping off the roof for a goddamn cellphone.
Unless it really wants me to.

This - this - is why I don't want to see Her. The idea of a sentient phone is not the stuff of quirky romantic comedies. It's a freaking dystopian nightmare.

Also, is it me, or does Joaquin Phoenix totally look as if he's about to
start ranting about his red stapler like Milton in Office Space?

Anyway, thanks, Drummer Boy, for making me piss off my phone. If you want me, you know where I'll be.



In a goddamn bubble in space, with Keir Dullea's eyes.

I hate technology.

Best Picture Blitz 2014, Part 3

So, thanks to Captain Phillips being at the dollar movies, Precocious Daughter and I were able to hit a second Best Picture nominee this weekend.

Making it rain: budget edition.

We chose to see August: Osage County, a hearty slab of hot Southern Gothic drama. I wasn't sure what to expect from this film. I knew it had a great cast, including Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Ewan McGregor, and ****** Benedict Cumberbatch ******

Do you think I enjoy being a 45-year-old fangirl?
OK, maybe a little.

In a nutshell (pecan, of course), Meryl Streep is a pill-addicted, passive-aggressive bitch who drives Sam Shepard (basically playing Atticus Finch as an alcoholic poet) to his grave. When her family gathers together to grieve, all kinds of juicy hell break loose. It's pretty damn awesome to behold.

Chris Cooper is wonderful as Uncle Charlie Aiken. I have loved Chris Cooper since Lonesome Dove. He is a marvel in this movie as the long-suffering, soft-spoken but not spineless Oklahoma gentleman thrust into the role of family patriarch. And as his wife Mattie Fay, the sister of Meryl Streep's Violet, Margo Martindale kicks butt. She gets to reveal the best secret of the movie, which is saying a lot.

Benedict Cumberbatch gets to sing, guys! His part is woefully brief and frankly underwritten. But it's OK, because he sings a sweet little song in a sweet little voice, and it's magical. (And for a very sweet story about how he learned to play his song on the piano, click here.)

I think I've probably mentioned before that my sister is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. If you want to know how beautiful, go see this movie. Watch Julia Roberts as Barbara. She looks exactly like my sis. I wish I could say her ex looks just like Ewan McGregor. He does not.

The fish scene. Oh my God, in a movie that really is pretty heavy in a lot of places, the fish scene made us laugh and laugh. When Julia Roberts tells her mother, "Eat the fish, bitch," I just about lost it. Afterwards, I asked PDaughter if she was someday going to say "Eat the fish, bitch" to me. She thought a moment, then said, "Not as long as you eat the fish, I guess." I love this kid.

My biggest quibble with the movie, and this will probably only really make sense if you live in the South: I realize that it is a time-honored convention in filmmaking that when a character gets up in the morning and steps outside, he or she puts on a light robe or sweater over his/her pajamas against the chill of the morning. Except that this is August in Oklahoma, and the extreme heat is the source of running commentary throughout the movie. Believe me, when the high temperature is 108, you don't need a wrap at 7 a.m. - it's going to be about 85 degrees already. When Julia Roberts did this in two different scenes, I was worried she was going to have a heatstroke right there onscreen.

In short, two thumbs up for August: Osage County. I don't think it has a chance at taking the Best Picture Oscar, but it's a hell of a good watch. Did I mention it's a total chick movie? Yeah, look out, males. You'll score big points if you take your lady friend. But, you know, it's a Southern Gothic dysfunctional family drama. Although it does have a sport car.

Best Picture Blitz 2014, Part 2

Precocious Daughter and I are continuing our quest to see every Best Picture Academy Award-nominated film before the Oscars on March 2nd. Except Wolf of Wall Street.

Because 556 f-words in three hours.
Pictured: Leo DiCaprio saying the f-word.

Today we saw Captain Phillips.  It's the story of a plucky big-box appliance store employee with dreams of making it big in the high-stakes world of musical theatre.

We're gonna make it after all!

Wait, no.

It's the fictionalized true story of a container-ship captain whose vessel is commandeered by Somali pirates off the coast of Africa. And it's really good, Drunkards. I was a wee bit not so much looking forward to seeing it, because movies where the Navy SEALS come in and blast everything to justice fuck yeah 'Murica are not my favorite. But I really liked Captain Phillips, and here's why:

1. Who doesn't love Tom Hanks, especially when he's rocking a New England accent that varies during the course of the film from Ben Affleck Lite to the Pepperidge Farm Guy Talking About Bread.

Yes, children, not just a "Family Guy" meme.

2. Barkhad Abdi, who was a limo driver and retail clerk before being cast as the head Somali pirate, completely deserves his Best Supporting Actor nomination. He takes what could have been a one-dimensional "evil foreign bad guy" role in a lesser movie and makes the character funny, human, and a totally believable analog to Hanks' all-American good guy.

And if you've seen him making the rounds at the awards shows
this season, you know he's having an absolute ball.

3. Michael Chernus, who plays hard-working first mate Shane Murphy, is adorable. And I totally want to watch "Orange Is the New Black" because he plays Cal Chapman in five episodes.

4. Since All is Lost and Robert Redford got totally, unforgivably snubbed for Best Picture and Best Actor nominations, respectively, I'm glad to have one Treasured American Actor in Peril at Sea movie to root for.

I totally recommend this movie.  Check it out. Tomorrow PDaughter and I are going to check out August: Osage County, I think. Spoiler alert: It has Benedict Cumberbatch in it. I'll let you know what the Oscar/squee factor is.

Four Words

I have to put this down in writing before I forget about it.

There's a lot of backstory to this post that I'm not going to delve into, so possibly it won't make much sense to anyone but myself. How that would be different from most of my posts, I'm not sure. If you want to keep reading, you're welcome as always. Just know that this one is mostly for me so I can keep it straight in my head.

I went to bed in a very strange place last night.

Well, no.

I mean, not like in a Dumpster or an abandoned condom factory or anything like that. I mean in a strange place emotionally and physically.

I had crossed a line with someone I care about very deeply, and in return I got neither anger nor rejection - which I totally deserved and probably could have shrugged off - but sadness and quiet disappointment. Which sort of broke something inside me.

And this person said four words to me that I'm not going to repeat here. But they were said with so much concern and gentleness that they clung to me all day, like a steady wind that won't stop blowing no matter which way you turn. Eventually you just have to turn your face to the wind and meet it head-on or you'll never get through to the place where it's calm.

Those words were still echoing in my head when I went to bed.

I thought I was tired. I was definitely sober (for once), so maybe I just got the two mixed up. And of course I felt sort of broken. Whatever the reason, I couldn't sleep. So I lay there in the dark, thinking about the future I wanted, wondering if it were too late to get there, and worrying about what might happen if I didn't make it.

That last part, especially.

Gradually I came to feel as if I were drifting in an undefinable place between awake and sleep. I observed myself falling into the long, slow breathing pattern of a sleeping person - but that person couldn't be me, because I was awake and making a running commentary in my head about how this other person was falling asleep.

Occasionally I think I really did sleep for short periods, because I would have a vague snippet of a dream and then wake up, commenting on the sleeping person and the dream she just had.

This weird pattern of narrating my own sleep-state from a place of wakefulness continued for several hours, punctuated by creepy silent musings about whether any of this meant I was dying and whether it was too late to keep myself from dying if that's what it was. In turn, those thoughts produced waves of anxiety. But again, it was more like an anxiety-dream, where you can't run fast enough or fly high enough to escape whatever is chasing you, but the feelings never overwhelm you because nothing in a dream is ever sharply defined enough to feel entirely real.

I should also mention that when I was commenting to myself about what was happening to me, in my head I was seeing and hearing Benedict Cumberbatch. Which should have tipped me off as to the extent of tangible reality I was experiencing, but of course at the time it did not. If Benedict Cumberbatch was that interested in my breathing, he could bloody well narrate.

In time the sleeping-me/wakeful-me entity merged into something like true sleep, in which I had unremarkable, silly dreams where I was alternately away at school, trying to impress my boss, and wondering if I could navigate a flooded alley without my car floating away.

I woke up feeling immensely hung over. How unfair that the beginning of alcohol withdrawal feels so much like the crud that made you refrain from drinking to begin with. Hair of the dog, my ass.

Hair. Dog. Ass. It all goes together.

There's a lot of fear in my life right now, a lot of uncertainty. Also a tremendous amount of love and support, if I don't let the fear and uncertainty crush them. The negative feelings are dangerous, but they're also fragile, and since they're part of me, that makes me fragile and vulnerable to whatever happens to them. The bad feelings need to be protected almost as much as they must be protected against. It's as if the two parts of me need to look out for each other, or we'll never get through this whole.

Maybe that's what last night was all about.

Best Picture Blitz 2014

The list of Things I've Never Done is long. It includes things like cocaine, Zumba, and eating any part of a frog oh my gosh, I had to cross that one out, as I actually did try frog legs recently at a Chinese buffet, which was an even worse idea than it sounds like. So instead let's go with eating the testicles of any animal.

And I'll try to forget about all the
poor legless froggies.

Also on the list of Things I've Never Done is that I've never seen all of the films nominated for the Best Picture Oscar in a given year. I've never even made a solid attempt at it. Typically if I've seen one or two by the time the awards are given out, I chalk that up as a good moviegoing year in my book.

By the way, writing a book in chalk is probably
a terrible idea. Especially if you're a lefty.

But this year I have a willing partner in media overload in the form of Precocious Daughter. I'm proud to say she devours movies and music as much as I did at her age, except that her taste and the breadth of her choices are better at age 14 than mine ever will be. It's as if the apple didn't fall far from the tree, but then it wisely rolled a safe distance away before the tree could infect it with some kind of gnarly root disease.

There was the seed of a good metaphor
in there, but it got wormy.

Anyway, PDaughter have agreed we're going to try to see all nine of this year's Best Picture nominees before the Academy Awards ceremony on March 2.

OK, we're going to try to see eight of the nine. I have no desire for either one of us to be subjected to 556 uses of the f-word in three hours, so we've decided to skip The Wolf of Wall Street. My Drunkards know that I have no particular aversion to the word. But clearly this film needed a good cursing editor. Everyone knows a few well-chosen fucks are better than just fucking all over the place.

You may quote me on that. Chuck knows best.

And it's going to take some lobbying by PDaughter to get me into 12 Years a Slave. I know it's supposed to be a remarkable and important film. But it also is intense and overwhelming and emotionally difficult to watch. I'm not sure I can handle it. But I'll try.

We began our quest yesterday with American Hustle. Which should have been nominated for more things so it could win them. Loved, loved, loved this movie. Christian Bale and his amazing combover were spectacular. Jennifer Lawrence blew me away. The script was perfection. And yes, the f-word and a few others were used liberally, but, you know, not 556 times. Probably not more than a hundred, hundred and fifty tops.

It's practically Romantic poetry.

So wish us luck as we endeavor to get to 8/9 of the Best Picture-nominated films. I think our next stop is Nebraska.

Sherlocked and Loaded

Tonight at 8:58 p.m. CT, Precocious Daughter and I will be glued to the TV to watch the Season 3 premiere of "Sherlock."

qlunq

That's quite interesting.

We're really excited. Of course, PDaughter is excited because this will be her second viewing of the premiere.

She's already watched all three episodes of Season 3. She live-streamed them from the BBC when they originally aired.

Because if she hadn't, she would have had to stay off Tumblr for 18 days.

If you didn't hear, Tumblr pretty much had a nervous breakdown following the British premiere.




It's very entertaining, but there are spoilers, but it doesn't matter
because none of them make any sense. You've been warned.

There is no reasonable way to keep a 14-year-old fangirl off Tumblr for two and a half weeks. So naturally she had to hack into the BBC to watch "Sherlock" as it happened. I opted to wait for the U.S. premiere tonight, but from the steady commentary coming from the bedroom as she watched on the computer, I can tell you the following about what to expect from this season:

Oh. My. Goooooosssssshhhhhh.

Aaaiiieeeeeee!

WHOA.

Oh nooooo!

Yes!

Awwwww.

Feels.

Such feeeeeeeeeels.

And that's just Episode 1.

When Episode 3 aired on the BBC last week, Tumblr literally fainted.

I'm not even going to link to the BuzzFeed article on how the fandom
reacted to Episode 3. You can't handle it.

PDaughter is not only way excited about seeing Season 3 again, she insists on DVRing the episodes so can watch them over and over, as she's watched the first two seasons over and over. Her fangirlness is addictive, so I'm definitely along for the ride.

Also, I've heard a rumor - maybe you heard it, too - that Sherlock possibly maybe didn't actually die at the end of Season 2. I'm not sure I'm prepared for the feels.

You lying, magnificent bastard.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank the company I work for for having MLK Day be a paid holiday. I'll need tomorrow to recover. From the feels.

Decisions, Decisions

Here are some things I've decided. Please tell me if they're insane or not. Not that your opinion will sway me, but I like getting comments.

I have so many problems.

OK, so here are the things I've decided.

There are a lot of talented bloggers who don't get million of hits. That doesn't make them any less talented. I might actually be among them, although that's not my call.

I don't make myself weaker or more vulnerable by admitting that.

I have no idea which of my posts will be popular. So I'm going to stop resenting when something I think is brilliant goes unappreciated, and instead to be grateful that others see good things in my writing that I don't always see.

I'm going to support the bloggers I love, even if liking their posts doesn't expose me to a huge audience.

Writing makes me feel good. It makes me feel whole. Maybe huge success would make me feel even better and whole-er. But if I could choose only one goal, it would be fulfillment without success, not vice versa.

After nearly 40 years of wanting to be a writer, I finally accept that there is only one definition of being a writer: A writer writes.

I don't want to have a tombstone, but if I did, I want it to read: A good mom, and a good writer.

Soon I will write a post listing all the bloggers I love. Most of them I consider friends first and writers second, and I've decided that's the proper order of things.

Like and Share if you agree with any of this. But if you don't? I've decided that's OK, too.

Shit My Job Says: Keep the Lights On

I haven't written a Shit My Job Says post since September 2012, when the shit-saying job I held at the time went away.

That was a great job. For two years I got paid a healthy salary to do virtually nothing except write my blog and light data entry. Goddamn, that was a good job.

Agree.

But the job I've had for the last 14 months has been even better. As in, actually better. Good salary, interesting work, great co-workers, an amazing boss. Even on bad days, I love my job. And it hasn't really talked any shit up to now.

Up. To. Now.

I won't bore you with the backstory, because let's face it, everything about business is boring as shit. But there have been some big changes recently at the company I work for. It's not that they're bad changes. Unless you believe that change itself is a bad, scary thing.

Which of course it is.

I don't like being stressed out at work. I resent even having to hold down a day job, so having to work in an environment that is anything less than kick-ass is just vexing to me.

To me, a kick-ass work environment means this:

• I know what the fuck I'm doing, and I'm good at it.
• My boss knows that I know my shit and lets me do it.
• I'm rarely bored because there's always plenty of cool stuff to do.
• My co-workers and I form a machine in which everyone knows what's expected and everyone trusts one another to roll that bitch into Friday each week.

When a machine is running well, it needs very little to keep it going. What it mostly needs is to be left the hell alone. What it doesn't need is some asshole who fancies himself a master mechanic saying, "Everyone gather around, because I have all kinds of exciting things to tell you."

Shit's about to get awesomer.

And it goes something like this:

"Hey, we're all one big happy corporate family, even those of you who have never laid eyes on me before today and have no reason to believe a word I say. But you must believe! You must! Because great things are happening! I know, because I just said so, and I believe it myself! You are not going to believe how brilliant and bright and exciting all of our futures are. But you must believe it! Because I'm here to make you believe. Believe me!

"Soon we will be the third-biggest company ever in the history of the world. A full 80% of the people who work here will be millionaires by August, and the rest will be shamed into resigning because of not believing. Which will be their tough luck, because the rest of us will be billionaires by June. Ha! Haha! Ha!

We will enjoy the fruits of our labor. Get it? Fruit?
Ha! Haha! Ha!

"Now, I know things. Exciting things! Things that I know because it's my job to know them, and to tell you so that you know them, too. These things I know are things you may not believe. But you must! You must believe! I have been sent here to make it rain belief in this great, wonderful office here in...this place where we are today! You're some of our best people, you people here. Everybody says so! People who have never met you and have no idea what you do here are believing in you right now! I'm going to draw a graph!

Look! A shark!

"And do you know what you have to do to make this amazingness happen? To make us all wealthy robber barons within three weeks and cause the Board of Directors to poop rainbows of pure stock options?

"Nothing! Nothing at all! You are all so gosh-darn fabulous that each and every one of you could power this entire building for a week by just plugging it into the twinkle in your eyes. Do you believe me?

"And yet...let me take it down to the ground for just one minute and get real with each of you perfect people...and yet...

"Even though you don't have to do one "single solitary thing except show up every day and spread your sunshine on this company like butter on a young girl's ass-crack...

"...we think you're going to want to. Because you are you, and you are us, and we are the company, and the company is your family, your lover, your hometown football team that matters more than sunlight because of the great and profound joy it brings to all our lives!

God, I love you so much.

"We think - and this comes straight from the top, which I know because I'm near enough to hear what they say up there, yet my heart is here with you wonderful people who I totally don't feel as if I just met for the first time five minutes ago, even the ones I really have met before but just don't remember - we think you're going to want to give the extra effort to make this company extra-happy-spicy-tiptop. We believe that! We really do! And we want you to believe we believe what you believe.

"We think that each and every of you truly wants to make our family rich and happy and rich. And to do that, we know you'll work and work and work and work and work and work. That's what I do, because I believe. My kids don't even know who I am, and my wife has taken comfort in the arms of the pool boy because I'm never home. But the joke is on them! Because the company is my home! I eat, sleep, shit, breathe, and take multiple prescription medications on a daily basis. Where else do you do that but at home?

"All of us here are family - family members who are paid to spend time together and threatened with termination if we don't do everything right! And if that's not family, I don't know what is. I used to, but I haven't seen my parents in four years. Ha! Haha! Ha!

"So here's what we just know you want to do. You want to keep the lights on.

Keep the fire burning.

"Sure, you could go home at five o'clock. Or you could keep the lights on, and keep working until seven. Or ten. Or just stay at the office all night and then swipe your crotch with a wet paper towel in the morning and get back to work. Dare to dream big. Because that little bit of extra effort will make us all kajillionaires. Or definitely some of us.

"Also, stop wasting office supplies. Every time you throw out a highlighter, the company's value plummets by three cents. Don't think we're not watching that shit.

"But mostly...believe! Believe in how fantastically superlative this company is! If you forget, don't worry, I'll come back next quarter and tell you again! I'll have a more expensive car by then! Will you? Maybe! If you don't, you probably didn't believe enough.

"Thanks for your time, I know you're probably sick of hearing me talk about how wonderful and swell we all are. Ha! Haha! Ha! Just kidding - we're all one big happy family, and we all think exactly alike, or will once the disbelievers are culled.

"Remember...keep the lights on! That's how we can see what you're doing!"

You know what? It may be time to...keep a bottle of vodka in my desk. I believe.

Tabitha Takes on the Internet

Note: It's time for another post from my page admin Tabitha. And I have to admit, this one is sort of my fault. Although really, I blame the Internet. Standard advance apologies apply. - CB

so, like, hi y'all. it's me, tabby.

tabitha roxanne renee louise brown
if you're nasty.

so the chuckster was being pretty funny this week. and by funny i mean she was all stressed out and about to have a nervous breakdown. which i find funny. here's why.

every year the domain name for this stupid blog comes up for renewal. every year the google people send her multiple reminders. and every year chuck puts off renewing until the damn thing up and expires, and she has to get it back up and running before she loses the three pathetic morons who actually read this thing.

manny, moe, and shemp i call them.

i mean, really, she should hire someone to look after things like that. a page administrator or whatnot. how hard can it be?

aaaaanyway, this year chuck decided to fork over her renewal fee a whole day before the domain registration expired. because she's, like, proactive and mature and blah-de-dah.

which reminds me, did you see diane keaton at the golden globes?
i love hot drunk chicks, don't you?

back to chuck. she could not for the life of her get to the screen that would allow her to renew. she tried and tried, and she trolled the help forums, and she logged in to her account a dozen different ways, and she could. not. do it. she got so panicked her pits started to excrete that extra-stinky stress sweat. you know what i mean. it doesn't happen to me - i got pit lipo and sucked away all my sweat glands - but i've smelled plenty of stinky stressed-out bitches. you know what i'm talking about.

her anxiety was eqx esqui equix awesome.

but all good things must come to an end, and she finally found the key to the renewal screen, so you people are just going to have to put up with this shitty blog for another year, which is totes not my fault. i just work here, and it's a crappy job at that. frankly, i'm appalled at your taste in websites. you're, like, really easily amused.

ermahgerd it's a monkey wearing clothes lol.

but shut up and listen for a minute. because not only did chuck figure out how to pay for her own stupid blog - which i'm sure will be on her lifetime "top 10 list of really obvious things i figured out" - but also she discovered how to do something else she's been wanting to do for a long time. and in a moment of finally not being completely lame, she did it.

she gave me my own email address, y'all.

aaaawwwww hell yeah.

i like totally exist now. i can talk to people, and i can go on facebook and i can have a twitter thing and i can order expensive garbage on amazon and leave stupid reviews that everyone goes hahahaha hey george takei look how funny these bogus amazon reviews are. and i can go on dating sites and comment on other people's awful blogs and...

...and i...

I told myself i wouldn't cry.

i have an email address. i bet i can hire freaking beyonce
to cry for me.

so, yeah, chuck? whatevs, i'm not taking your starch any more, girl. i have email now. watch out, internet, tabby is on your webs, subscribing to your feeds.

oh, and it's tabby(at)always-drunk.com. like, say hi and whatnot. unless you're one of those nigerian princes or selling viagra. i will cut a bitch that tries to get me to share my confidential banking information or make my dick hard. the internet is no place for lies and scams. duh.

tabby(at)always-drunk.com. that's me. kluvyubye.

ciao,
tabby

A Very Straightforward Post About the Golden Globes

Last night I watched the Golden Globes. Which is not something I typically do. But as I'm reminded every single day, I now have a teenage daughter with an insatiable appetite for media. And tuna noodles, although that is somewhat less relevant to the topic at hand. I'm trying to keep today's post tightly focused.

No matter how adorable this picture of a baby
chinchilla may be, it's off topic, and we'll dwell
no more on it.

So Precocious Daughter and I watched the Golden Globes last night. I was delighted to see Tina Fey and Amy Poehler show up on the red carpet.

Tina's hair and dress were awful! That made me feel good, because I'm shallow and vain and mean-spirited and it's just not fair that Tina Fey gets to be gorgeous and smart and funny. Really, she's setting the cause of feminism way back by inspiring so much petty jealousy in her fellow women. Me. In me. Shame on her. So yeah, I was glad to see the hideous Peter Max-inspired bedroom curtains she was wearing, along with the exact same hairstyle I rocked in my fourth-grade school picture. Especially since Amy looked smokin' hot. Not just in comparison, but all by her gorgeous damn self.

Then the show started, and Tina ruined everything by coming onstage like this:

How did she even do that? Stop being so beautiful, Tina Fey. You're ruining everything for women. Again, me. You're ruining everything for me by being you. Because that's totally how it works.

 

I really had no idea how cute baby chinchillas are.

What? Where did that come from? We're talking about the Golden Globes here.

Anyway, there were awards and stuff. Oh, by the way, I joked on Twitter (@drunkbaudelaire, just throwing that out there) that a good drinking game for the Golden Globes is to drink whenever someone talks about drinking. Let me just say that if you play that game, you end up drinking really quite a lot. I mean, by the time Emma Thompson teetered onstage holding her Loboutins in her hand, I was almost as drunk as she was.

 

Drunk Emma Thompson is now the patron saint of this blog.

I'd like to point out that Terry Crews' blue tuxedo and badass wingtips was the most incredible outfit ever...

 

...but I can't, because then along came Matthew McConaughey in his green velvet tuxedo. What.

 

My sweet Matthew is still too thin from his award-winning role in Dallas Buyers Club. If someone would kindly provide me his home address, I should like to bring him hearty soups and crusty homemade bread to restore the meat to his pretty bones.

Anyway.

So dig this: There was not a single camera shot all night of Benedict Cumberbatch. You would have thought he wasn't even at the Golden Globes. Oh, he was there. Apparently someone on the technical crew didn't get the memo that Benedict Cumberbatch is not to go unphotographed when present. Someone missed the opportunity to broadcast his face over the international airwaves and boost both the ratings and the awesomeness of the awards ceremony. I'm not suggesting that someone should be fed to the lemurs for this oversight.

 

But possibly to the chinchillas. So many chinchillas.

We know that Benedict was in attendance because we have this delightful picture of him dancing with Michael Fassbender.

You will never, ever enjoy yourself this much unless you are
Benedict Cumberbatch or Michael Fassbender, or at least
have an equally amazing multisyllabic name.

Did you know that Benedict Cumberbatch is on the cover of Russian GQ this month and it looks like this?

Haha, I don't even know which of those words say
"Benedict Cumberbatch." Or why they bothered
putting any words on the cover at all.

What was I talking about?

No more chinchillas.

That is totally an otter.

And a bunch of people won stuff. Michael Douglas looked wonderful, Kyra Sedgewick looked like one of those annoying characters Jan Hooks used to play on SNL that laughed after everything they said, and I still can't tell Andy Samberg and Jesse Eisenberg apart. Johnny Depp did not wear a bird on his head, which almost ruined the evening for me, except it was the end of evening and I was too Emma'd to care that much.

There, that was pretty much on point, wasn't it? Not a chinchilla in sight.