If you're the kind of bottom-of-the-barrel gambling addict who likes to play the spread on the Oscars, the Golden Globes might kind-of, sort-of, mean something.
Let's forgo the usual drunk dartboard method of picking Globes winners and try to fathom the inner emotions of that crazy-redhead-you'll-never-forget known as the Golden Globes!
It's midnight and I'm doing my laundry with just enough time to pack a battered carry-on and catch an REM cycle before jetting out of Los Angeles on a crack-of-dawn flight to Park City. 12 hours ago --scratch that, six hours ago -- I had no idea whether or not I'd go to Sundance this year.
I admit, my completely unplanned Sundance excursion gave me pause: would the catchy notion of letting the universe dictate my snowy path through Park City be just that, a catchy notion? Driving to the airport, I realized I didn't even have a deck of cards to play solitaire with alone in my hotel room.
The true find of the day -- the kind of jaw-dropping, breath-taking movie that gets applause even in a press screening -- was Toronto hit The Raid.
As for me, I ended my festival experience with the perfect coda. Catching a beer and the amazing end of the Giants/49ers game at Cisero's lounge on Main St., I had the quintessential Sundance encounter.
Oscar prognosticating is a hard habit to break. Sure enough, I stumbled across the SAG and DGA awards results this morning, and much like finding that emergency cigarette stashed in your winter coat's breast pocket, I couldn't help lighting up.
