The Golden Globes

"Wait you've got to watch this."
"She looks like Jessica Parker."
"She looks like Daryl Hannah."
"Her hair is ter-rible."
"What, I like it!"
"She's wrecked."
"I know, right?"
"Shh, I'm replaying it."

It's raining, both in LA and here in New York. From out of the floor-to-ceiling glass of our friends' Hells Kitchen apartment we can see that most of midtown is wreathed in fog. Even in Hollywood, people are cowering under umbrellas, shivering in chiffon and vintage lace.

Julia Roberts, arm slung around her agent, has on a simple black dress and her Pretty Woman grin. While everyone else is posing Pilates tall and making safe small talk, she's loose and half-lit. In the wings, a puffy faced Tom Hanks looks like he's concentrating very hard on standing upright and keeping his face straight as Roberts veers off the unwritten script. She calls out NBC, jokes about her sex life, and, best of all, draws attention to the absurdity of the interview process, where well-groomed hosts wax sycophantic for thirty second bursts before unceremoniously moving on to the next face before their inane questions are even answered.

Mostly the celebs smile graciously and melt away. Not our Julia.

It's clear from the host's body language that he's winding down the interview, but his stars are too A-List to physically walk away from.
"So, over to you, Natalie," he says, bizarrely thrusting the microphone at Roberts' face at the same time.
Before the cut is made, we hear her demand "Who's Natalie?"

"Yeah, who the fuck is Natalie?"
"She's priceless."
"Yeah, but what was that necklace all about?"

Later there's excited murmurs as Roberts steps up to present an award. The smile comes out again, but this time there's no manicness, no glimpse of the face behind the makeup.

"Her agent must have sobered her up."
"Guess so."

Glumly, we reach for the guacamole.