God Bless You, Mister Rourkewater

Is there any aspect of the entertainment industry as insipid as the televised awards show? In this post-Survivor world, what else can cause basic cable execs everywhere to salivate on their laminated, particle board laptop carts as fast as this zero budget boon? Get your babysitters--sorry, "celebrity stylists"--on speed-dial, boys, the TV Guide channel needs 72 hours of talking heads about the Globes put on Beta, STAT, no editing required!

With all the "serious" press being given to the impending inauguration, I have found myself mindlessly sifting through yesterday's news for inspiration. Can I find a nugget of smart-aleck gold while mining the caverns of Kardashians re-runs, or perhaps squeeze the asbestos dust of Dr. Drew's Sober House into a sparkling gem of scathing social commentary? Unfortunately, no. Even crafting individual sentences about this desolate wasteland, dotted with the self-exploitation of almost-famous losers and mountains of hack reporters desperately trying to achieve immortality by capitalizing on strained US race relations, is, to say the least, difficult. Game over, man. Lasso limp on the ground, head shoved deep into sand. Call me when the Russians finally get back on their game and nuke all the schoolchildren.

As fast, cheap, and under control as a typical awards show can be, particularly the milqtoast Golden Globes, these events do provide the ideal opportunity for the freakshows of Hollywood to crawl out from under their rocks in the Valley and squint in the sunlight for a few glorious minutes.

You can only imagine my elation at the sight of velvet-clad monstrosity Mickey Rourke as he stumbled to the floor while ascending the 2 shallow stair steps necessary to claim his prize. In the true spirit of celebrity freakdom, Rourke didn't stop there: he proceeded to quote Bone Thugz in a teary eyed shout out to his Dogs, losing momentum two sentences in (perhaps upon realization that security had taken his Old English at the door) and claiming that he was actually talking about his loyal canines who had supported him with their sloppy tongue kisses during his exile in the land of bad plastic surgery.
So, thank you Mickey Rourke, for injecting your particular brand of absurdity into an otherwise boring parade of the bourgeoisie. Your cockeyed demeanor and pimp-inspired duds were like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.


  1. Russians nuking school children, Rouke's Old E, classic.

  2. What withe all the C. Feldmane and Red Dawn references I'm beginninge to doubte yer true age. Anywaye, I thought I was borne in between generationes, post Gordon Gekko and real 80e's punke rocke, materialism, pre mid-90e's Lollipaloozation and celebration of generic "alternative" "self-expression." e.