In Quiet Remembrance of Who They Forgot to Thank at the Golden Globes ...

Edit, Stage Right ...

 ... After watching a couple of hours of many of the best-known, most beautiful, best-dressed, and certainly most familiar faces on Earth, it occurred to me that each and every one of these high beings all forgot to mention not only the vendors of popcorn and ticket sellers who work for minimum wage. But more than that, they forgot to mention the movie-goers who spent bazillions of dollars, in recent months to their own personal peril, even death, to dress them all up in the silky pomp of their red-carpeted lives ... and that some of these adoring patrons did so, in fact, when usually they couldn't even put down a dollar into faux soda machines coughing up their lesser, but yes, more frequently insanely violent cinematic efforts. Not one of these pretties mentioned this. Not one ... What a great year for propaganda films masquerading a reality so intense, so real, so deadly, so geopolitical and tactically correct in their horrifying worldview master-crafters, we can all barely keep from spanking ourselves with hard-earned dollars and personality cult worship to keep from spilling blood into buckets of popcorn to dress up these, yes, highly creative, but self-congratulating folks to say "enough ... enough already." Stop celebrating now all of the wars, all of the human sacrifices, stop depicting these training films for international intrigues and instructors of how to run death machines, these films that need security clearances just to rent the props. Is there a Frederico Fellini, a Woody Allen, a Robert Altman in the house? ... I suppose in these days of economic disparity, it seemed like there was only time for the Hollywood elite to save their own arses to stay off the street to revisit the tough times many of them came from, or, more than just secretly loathe.

And that's my review.

To the sound of silent cyberpunk (or Wilco-style bluegrass, your choice) we go: 

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 
Gotta get ahead of you (Seventy two hours) 
Seventy two hours as a Social Darwinist 
Gotta get an edge over the loss, 
vengeance is hip you know 
Gotta get a handle on the guilt I miss  

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist 
Gotta get over you (seventy two, seventy two, seventy two hours) 
Seventy  hours as a Social Darwinist 
As you tried to convince me of your Know Nothing bliss, 
I let my eyes look away, if for just a minute (Seventy two, seventy two seventy two) 
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin 
You won`t like the feeling, your empty hand will be shaking (seventy two, seventy two) 
Won`t like the smell as the whole world is quaking (seventy two, seventy two seventy seventy seventy two) 

(Refrain) 
On the third day I flew across the sky 
rebuilt the temple of love, I did pray 
Sure, I fell, makin` a hell of her heaven, 
and man O man let the bunker busters fly. 

I ran for cover, O sweet Sweet Twenty Three Skidoo (Twenty three, twenty three twenty three skidoo) 
By the sixty-ninth hour as a social Darwinist 
I ran for cover, looking for the way you look at me, 
hoping and I`m praying to look up to you. 

(Jaggedy Guitar riffs here) 

Three more hours as a social Darwinist, 
for just three days I forgot about you (seventy two, O, seventy two, yeah) 
Seventy two hours of living from your hand to my fist 
Seperate but equal, sure, gotta get a step on you. 
Treated every living thing like my private little toy 
Dreamin of the cosmos now, when I was just a boy (Darwinist) 
Wore your love like a glove but there was no joy (Darwinist) 
Gotta get around these blank walls, gotta get over you (Darwinist) 

 A Phoenix-based freelance writer, Douglas McDaniel can be e-mailed at mythville@gmail.com for as long as the empire supplies electricity.