Live-blogging the Golden Globes?! Stay tuned, gentleladies and gentlemen.

Giuliana Rancic can’t stop fan-girling over the prospect of Amal Alamuddin on tonight’s red carpet. Are you kidding me? This woman (human rights lawyer, bee-tee-dubs) has more going for her than a thumbs-up from your network or a stint as arm candy during a superficial industry’s masturbatory main event. Then again, maybe not. She did marry George Clooney. (Yes I realize that’s the POINT of a red carpet pre-show. I get it. I just can’t justify Giuliana’s celebrity. I can’t.) … in case it wasn’t obvious, I just remembered the Golden Globes were tonight. But! I remembered in time to catch. . . keep going

Blame depression, not Robin Williams: Why suicide isn’t selfish

The sudden absence of Robin Williams from this planet has shaken several generations in a surprisingly severe way. No one’s holding back this time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it; we’re all suffering, and we’re all reliving the childhood memories that wouldn’t exist at all if it weren’t for him. With some exceptions: those who think he deserves no sympathy because he chose the “selfish” and easy way out. Robin was never that insensitive about suicide. In fact, the movie that caused him the most pain during filming, What Dreams May Come, shed a beautiful light. . . keep going

Open letter to Kirsten Dunst

Dear Kirsten, Take this only as a testament to your ability to become your characters, but I always forget how much I like you. You’re in so many of my favorite films, and I feel like we grew up together because of it. I wanted to BE you as Lux in The Virgin Suicides…so much so that I spent my first and only Homecoming dance in the grassy football field behind the gym, and I still have a bag with some dried clippings. The rest of your filmography reads like an inventory of my DVD collection: Eternal Sunshine of the. . . keep going

Tabloid, guillotine, whatever, whatever…

Amanda Bynes

The hive mind is at it again, delighting in the downfall of one more member of the young, rich, famous elite.   I’m guilty too; for my moth of a sleep-deprived or overworked mind, celebrity gossip is a delicious flame, just attractive and distracting enough to replace my own flaws and burdens with a superficial narrative, played out by fake faces and their string-pulling publicists. Sometimes it’s not so fake, though.  Sometimes someone is so uncomfortably raw that it can’t be an act, but the public forgets not to treat it as such.  No one trapped behind the gloss of. . . keep going