HERE’S what I’d say to Barack Obama if he called me for campaign advice (I’m not holding my breath): If you find yourself, for some reason, at the annual awards show put on by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association-otherwise known as the Golden Globes-bear in mind that it’s a cash bar.
Wine is served at the tables, of course, but if you want a serious drink you have to head to the back of the auditorium and line up with the rest of Hollywood. One year, I found myself in line with one of the biggest movie stars-maybe the biggest movie star—of the 1970s. That year, though, he was starring in a television show, a comedy. We got to chatting, and as he collected his drink and took a sip, he surveyed the hotel ballroom before us, thronged with famous faces. “You know,” he said, a little sadly, pointing over to the movie-star part of the audience, “I used to sit on that side of the ballroom.” And then he pointed to the opposite side, to the television crowd. “Now I sit over there.” He took a belt from his drink, uttered a single colorful expletive, and moved off.





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