There is very little celebrities can teach us. They can instruct us in how to wear leggings inappropriately, perhaps, or demonstrate that child naming is not simply a familial concern, but rather an exercise in pure stupidity as they compete to name their offspring after inanimate objects, nonsensical terms, or barring local legislation to the contrary, words produced after mashing keys on a keyboard.
Occasionally, celebrities exhibit a a momentary lapse in self-absorption and provide us with insight into their little world, such as their reaction when Ryan Seacrest expresses only limited interest in their shoe manufacturer as they preen on a red carpet designed to hide their blood and tears on their way into a gala where they will reward themselves for rewarding America with their very presence.
The Golden Globes, one such event, is a golden opportunity to contemplate the nexus of two vapid populations: Hollywood celebrities and foreigners. While Angelina Jolie demonstrates her lack of self-respect – and lack of a stylist interested in fashions not worn by the Golden Girls in a very special episode about the sexual effects of menopause – the foreigners, known as the Hollywood Foreign Press, a group so dignified its bribery scandals involve gilded gold envelopes, tries to measure its impact on the American public by awarding prizes indiscriminately and waiting for outraged public reaction. This year, they even upped the ante by hiding the results of their “voting,” scavenger hunt style, in Sandra Bullocks’ bangs, under Christina Aguilera’s breasts, and as the person of Marc Anthony.
Thankfully, the stars bore their burden in style, acting as though becoming the willing marionettes of people who have yet to understand the concept of a daily shower was merely the price paid for a moment in the spotlight. Few protested their circus exhibition, though the ones that did were notable. Halle Berry, for instance, flaunted her captors by failing to wear a full dress.
Eva Longoria lamented her station in life by dressing for a Las Vegas hooker funeral. Leighton Meister made it known that she intends to drop acting as a career and, instead, take up the yoke of a particularly spiffy Sister-Wife, and Christina Hendricks demonstrated live the ills affecting one who has had her face eaten by a ruffle. Men of the species, Johnny Depp and Robert Downey Junior exhibited a stubborn unwillingness to acknowledge any rules of fashion.
The foreigners seemed unaffected. Perhaps they knew that later this week, we would greet our new Chinese overlords with all the pomp, splendor and dry-aged sirloin typically reserved for German Shepherds intent on eating our very flesh. Perhaps they understood that, by holding our debt close to their hearts, the could endure any number of fashion disasters since one day they, themselves, would dictate the color of the work jumpsuits we would wear as we wipe the remains of their double-stuffed baked potato into the trash bin of our dignity.
Perhaps, they reveled in our confusion, anticipating a day when stuffy British humor would be foisted upon our country with no mercy in sight. Or, perhaps, they really are dumb enough to believe Annette Benning can act.
Perhaps, only time will tell. Until then, Godspeed Johnny Depp. Godspeed.