The Golden Globes (And no, I'm not referring to Scarlett Johansson's breasts.)

I got sucked into the Sparkly again.

I could go on and on about the misconception of awards shows as some sort of quantification of merit, rather than the Hollywood Political Olympics that they really are, but I think I already did that once, so I’ll spare you. More often than not, the Emmys and the Oscars make me roll my eyes with a vague sense of entitled disgruntlement as the overexposed studio productions and Nielsen-whore television monstrosities take home 1,017 awards, while my indie favorites and understated actors get snubbed again.

But sometimes, they get it right, at least a little bit.

The Golden Globes were fun this year. Somehow the winners were justifiable, for the most part, the speeches were a little less comatose than usual, and most people avoided shopping at Career Suicide Couture. The red carpet media was appropriately garish and provided a lot of material for those of us with an overdeveloped sense of snark. For whatever reason, the Globes were unusually enjoyable, but that could have had something to do with the hideous glass of Dr. Pepper and vodka I was drinking.

I made a conscious decision at the beginning of the evening to abandon any pretense of intellectual activity, hang my shame at the door, and splash about the shallow end of the pool with my ghetto drink for a couple of hours. I happened to run into a few extra-snarky friends online who were also watching the show, and we had a glorious virtual Globes party. (Kate? You rock.)

Over on the E! channel, Isaac Mizrahi started things off by admirably throwing himself into the fray with such voracious dedication to being as appalling as possible, that he may well be my new favorite red carpet maven. Only Mizrahi could be so appealing to me while I’m strolling the aisles at Target, but so atrocious while I’m watching him squeeze Scarlett Johansson’s breasts prior to the awards broadcast. I had no idea that the most important question of the evening would be “Are you wearing underwear?”

The stars themselves were in fine form, dressed to the nines (sometimes even the tens), and looking generally superior to everybody else. There were fewer mishaps than usual, I think, although I’d like to send out a friendly PSA to Drew Barrymore: I’d like to support you, dear, and I’d hold up a big perky sign proclaiming my love for you, because I know you carry the weight of your family name and your battle with drugs must have dragged you down, but I have just one word for you, sweetie: brazier. Google it. It’s really hard for me to concentrate on my Dr. Pepper mixer when your nips are winking (sadly) at me in Hi Def.

The ceremony was speckled with equal parts predictable and un-, but I was generally pleased with the winners of the major categories. Most notably: Best Actor in a Television Drama Series, Hugh Laurie, and Best Television Drama Series, Lost. It’s worth mentioning that Hugh Laurie, toward whom I may be biased because he is my TV boyfriend, was finally recognized for his stellar work on House after being snubbed by Emmys last year. I’m happy to see the Hollywood Foreign Press recognizing the depth Laurie brings to the character that has most critics doing nothing more than dog-earing the page for “caustic” in their thesauruses. Of course, that statement might mislead you into thinking the Hollywood Foreign Press actually has a purpose in this world, and it doesn’t really, so take that for what you will. I’m also happy for Lost, both because the show is original, engrossing, and intelligent, and also because I think the Desperate Housewives are incapable of being desperate when they hoard nominations like nuts in winter.

Several of the night’s acceptance speeches were fantastic departures from the laundry list of gratitude that usually weighs down these events. Geena Davis launched into a touching tale of wonder involving a little girl in her first party dress who tugged on Geena’s skirt and thanked her for inspiring her to want to become the first female President of the United States, before confessing that it “didn’t actually happen. But it could have.” Hugh Laurie, in his adorably British way, wrote the names of the 172 people that deserved to be thanked on little slips of paper, put them in his pocket, and drew out three at random. He ended up thanking the script supervisor, the hair stylist, and his agent, though he noticed that last one was not written in his handwriting. The man who co-wrote the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain thanked his typewriter. Steve Carrell read an acceptance speech he said was written by his wife, which was peppered with high praise for her, and concluded by thanking “Nancy, my precious wife, who put her career on hold in support of mine and who sometimes wishes I would let her know when I'm going to be home late, so she can schedule her life, which is no less important than mine.”

I like it when celebrities have personalities.

I confess that after about the first hour of the broadcast, my recollection of it starts to get a little fuzzy. It’s entirely possible that American Idol won for Best Documentary or Six Feet Under won for Best Comedy; I don’t really know, because by that time the vodka had reached the memory section of my brain, and my remembrance consists mostly of “Damn, Harrison Ford looks OLD,” “I see somebody left Patricia Arquette an anonymous reference to a hair dresser after the Emmys last year,” and “How can I not have any popcorn in my apartment?”

In all, I had a great time Monday night, because I was in good company with friends who are just as hypocritically shallow as I am. It’s probably for the best that they were not actually in the room with me, because I suspect my little victory wiggle dance over Hugh Laurie’s win would earn me a hearty helping of mockery that would last at least until the Oscars.