Global Morning

What is up with the Golden Globes? Gone are the days of people winning awards while they are in the ladies room (Christine Lahti, 1998), winners giving up their awards to the old guard (Ving Rhames giving Jack Lemmon his Globe, 1998) and people acting all, oh I don't know, happy to be there (yes Angelina, I'm talking to you). When the woman who once jumped into the pool (wearing this Randolph Duke number, no less) at the Beverly Hilton to celebrate her win (1998 again, damn that was a good year) can't crack a smile, despite the fact that she is practically married to Brad Pitt, we got troubles people.

Ok, so I don't have too much to say (yeah, right), but I do want to hit some points of interest here:

Not enough of the Cloon for my taste. In fact, it was barely a taste. He came out, gave Jennifer Hudson an award and then, poof, he was gone. Didn't even see him on the red carpet. Um, yeah, not pleased. I was able to tell, however, that his hair looked awesome. So handsome, he is. Well, that's out of the way.

You know what's nice about the Globes? No host. It just flows without someone onstage to guide things along. No 17-minute monologue that hits and misses, no weird jokes to fill the time, no awkward laughter and reaction shots. People just walk out on their cue, do their thing and move on to the next thing. Also, no musical numbers! The only constant we see on the stage is Miss Golden Globe (Jack Nicholson's daughter, Lorraine). I think that's nice. Let the celebs loose, don't have another celeb try to wrangle them, let them roam free! Free range celebs! I like it.

As far as speeches go, thank God (or is it thank Britain?) for Hugh Laurie and Sascha Baron Cohen and their strange senses of humour. I thought Forrest Whitaker was going to pass out, but he recovered nicely in the end. Alec Baldwin was random, but in a good way (thanks for sharing about the hernia!). I feared that Kyra Sedgewick was going to forget Kevin Bacon, but how could anyone forget Kevin Bacon? Meryl Streep continues to win me over with her wacky ways. I guess when you are considered the greatest actress of your generation, have 13 Oscar nominations (more than Kate Hepburn even!) and TWENTY ONE Golden Globes under your belt, you can be as goofy as you want to be when you win, but always in the best of taste. Jennifer Hudson and America Ferrara had me close to tears and Helen Mirren is, well, she's a classy dame who forgot to thank her husband, director Taylor Hackford, BOTH times. I'm sure he's fine with it.

Dear Tom Hanks: What in the hell were you talking about? I didn't know you even knew Warren Beatty, much less were so buddy-buddy that you could present him with the Cecil B DeMille Award. Yes, your speech had some high points and you took some risks. Ballsy risks. And by balls I mean "artistic vision." Obviously Rita wasn't there to keep you in line. You know who might have been a more appropriate person to do this tribute. Warren Beatty's sister. She's an actress too, you know. I think her name is, oh what is it? Oh yeah, I remember. It's SHIRLEY MACLAINE. Where the hell was she? She would have kept all those boys in line, for sure. Would have ripped those sunglasses right off of Nicholson's face and told him to "Grow up, that's your daughter up there!" Come on, people!

OK, I have to talk about the clothes. While some people have recovered nicely from previous awards fashion debacles (well played, Naomi Watts, you're almost there! don't give up, keep taking tips from Nicole), some people continue to leave me baffled as to why they are considered fashion icons (Sienna Miller, I'm sorry, I just don't get it and I don't know if I ever will. I will say this: that dress, though not my fave, is probably the best thing I have ever seen you in. Ever). And then, of course, you have the people who are consistently wonderful and make you happy to see them. May I present Exhibits Armani, Blass and Dior: Jada Pinkett Smith in a perfect coral Armani, Rachel Weisz in gorgeous red Bill Blass and Slammin Salma Hayek in a white Dior. (you can go to style.com for photos of all of these beauties). And of course, J-Lo shows up wearing all of her own jewelry and fox fur fake eyelashes and channeling Liz Taylor, right down to the adoring husband. And Renee Zellweger is all perfect, if not a wee bit pinched. I would love to see that dress she was wearing on Julianne Moore. Her coloring is perfect for that type of thing. And Hilary Swank and Reese Witherspoon show up with their brave Oscar-winning divorcee faces on to show how strong they are in the face of adversity. They both looked great, in spite of their struggles.

I have to say that one always hopes, if not for a Bjork swan-dress moment, then at least for a little bit of Cher out there. Everyone can't look perfect, right? That would be boring as hell. Well, I thought it was bad enough that Charlie Sheen was wearing the most ill-fitting jacket I had ever seen and that Philip Seymour Hoffman was incredibly rumpled and that Clint Eastwood was wearing a funky goldish tiny bow tie (Clint and I have an unspoken pact: He shows up to win awards wearing ties I hate and I stay home and watch him win in those ties I hate. Very simple). And even Beyonce's Mackie-esque gown could be reasoned out one of two ways: either her mother made that dress for her and forced her to wear it using mother's guilt or she's taking the Miss Diana Ross thing too far. But no, someone I like had to show up looking like hell. Someone I like had to make me say, out loud to my television, "Ooooooh Noooo!" Not only is this someone I like, someone who's Golden Globe winning show I thoroughly enjoy, this is someone I've seen in person, from not too great a distance. Someone who is, for her age, hell for any age, absolutely stunning and can pull off almost any outfit. Almost. So I ask you this: Why Vanessa? Why? When Tim Allen was on stage with her (by the way, why was he there...oh right, Santa Clause 3), he gave her the up and down and said, "Man if looks were a minute, you'd be a loooong day." Yes, Tim, a very long day indeed.

Shaking out the Dust

I was just going through some old poems and thinking about who I was when I wrote them. Some of the poems are 15 years old. I find that I have to step outside of myself a little bit in order to be able to look at them objectively. You would think that 10-15 years is enough distance, but depending on the poem, it isn't. It's weird. I haven't looked at them in so long, it is like someone else wrote them. And some of them are good, I think. Interesting. I'll be posting them from time to time, along with some new ones (if I write any new ones, that is). Feel free to throw the feed back my way. I need to know if I'm on the right track here, so bring on the comments. Thanks.

Sprucing Up

Well, this was a hell of a week, as evidenced by the fact that I did not post for three days. Sometimes, sleep comes first, you know. Today is catch up day. ML and I will take down all of our Christmas decorations and clean up around our little box in the sky. It's a good day for it too, seems yucky out. Furonda and I will probably meet up for a coffee or shoe shopping or both a little later. Good times.

So, after spending an hour last night wondering where the "Add Page Element" is on Blogger, I finally found it. This was after browsing the help section three times, reading through the forum to see if I was missing something and updating my template, twice (which cleared out a number of links I had on the page...grrr). I've almost got it exactly how I want it, which is nice and orderly. I'm thinking about adding some text, like what I'm reading or mini movie reviews or something like that in the sidebar. Lord knows I love to make a list.

OOOH the Golden Globes are on tomorrow night! I love the Globes because they are a bit more unpredictable than the Oscars. Maybe it's because it's television and film,and you get to see a wider range of stars. Or maybe it's because everyone is sitting in a ballroom having dinner. Or maybe it's because it's basically open bar and most people have had a few by the time they take the stage. Yeah, that's it. Anything can happen. Can't wait.

Something New: Draft

Jotted this one down while sitting in a bar, end of December 06. It's in the same style as my book. It's not bad, but it's not great. Just a start.

Alphabet. The
Beginning of everything. But I
Can't seem to begin. It's
Definitely not as
Easy as it used to be.
Frustrated...
Grasping at words. The
Harmony won't flow.
I'm stuck.
Just
Killing time here. It's been a
Long time since I
Made something work that wasn't
Nonsense. The task seems
Omnious now. Far from
Perfect, I'll
Question every
Rhyme, every
Syllable.
Trying to be
Unique, but the
Very thought of
Writing...insert
X-pletive here. It's been
Years and maybe the
Zing is gone.

DCA 12/27/06

Taking Off

That's me at a gymnastics meet sometime in 1982 or 1983. I believe that is the first cartwheel of mine to be caught on film. I have since been captured mid-wheel in Washington DC, Newport RI, London UK, Block Island RI, Ithaca NY and, of course, Stonehenge UK. I'm proud to say that, as long as I stretch a bit before I take a shot at doing one, I can still wheel with the best of them. Cartwheels are always my favorite tumbling trick because you can pretty much do them anywhere. Wait, no. I take that back. ROUNDOFFS are my favorite. What's the difference? Well, you need to get a good run going in order to build the kind of momentum required to fly. Believe me, if you hit the mats fast enough, hands first, then flight is absolutely possible. I wrote a poem about it. Would you like to read it? Here it is.

Blue & Red

I remember...
My hair in pigtails and ribbons,
a runway of electric blue,
a four foot streak in a red leotard.

I remember taking flight,
hands barely brushing the mats,
exhilarated in air.

I remember touching down
knees locking, back arched,
arms high above my head.
A perfect roundoff.

I remember feeling powerful
and strong
and streamlined.
It was a wonderful flight,

the flight of my childhood
before adolescence grounded me,
when a runway of blue mats and
a red leotard were all
a girl needed to fly .

Daisy C. Abreu 1993