Samantha . . . who?

I intended to live blog the Golden Globes tonight, but then those writer types whah whah whah-ed all the way home and it wasn’t to be. I’m left watching the Access Hollywood talent fill time with excessively-Lubridermed legs that may or may not glow in the dark and really, really wide ties. Three hours of this and I might cry or break down and agree to have your babies.

It’s sad, but as much as I’m a whore for awards shows, there really wasn’t anyone I was excited to see this year. I need a new star. The starlets of my youth have gone the way of the Honda Odyssey: Julia Roberts seems to be jonesing to squeeze out a full litter and even Halle Berry bought herself a one-way ticket on the soccer mom train. I ache that the days of screwing bad boys like Keifer have been replaced with Costco packs of Sunny D. Nor do I want to make out with the Indie chicks, mostly because of a fear of patchouli well earned in college, so Keira Knightly and most anything British and twentysomething are out of the question. As is anything that’s touched the genitals of Tom Cruise.

The really young ones are just really irritating, as is their collective appetite for destruction. Britney is more than a train wreck, and instead is a woman approaching that Sioux City, Iowa plane crash I should never have read about in Time. If she stays on her current path, in but a few short months there will be absolutely no venti Starbucks foam for her cleaning crew to suction from the sidewalk. All that will remain are some ill-advised West Hollywood extensions and her sister’s 12 minutes of boiled peanuts fame. Hardly a legacy. Ms. Lohan? No different. Nor is the newly-delinquent Ms. Barton. Each of these girls is in a race to meet her demise a la Mama Cass, albeit at the hands of a Taco Bell chalupa rather than a ham sandwich. No sour cream, of course.

I’ve got my eyes on the even younger ones, the Raven Simones and the saccharine Hannah Montanas. One of you has got to have what it takes for engaging stardom, the stuff Madonna was made of when she wiped 80% of her bare skin on that 1984 MTV Music Awards stage. There must be a bona fide bad ass out there, a Russell Crowe or a Johnny Depp who is just greasy enough, but just expensively product'd enough that you’d think of allowing him into your bed.

And I’ve already loved the belles of the ball. Reese, we almost had something special, something lovely, before everyone else thought you had talent. You were Dido’s “Thank You” to me, a beautiful melody that was mine and only mine in the days of Marky Mark and Fear, before the mainstream found you and tainted everything by paying you what you were worth. We are so over.

But maybe just as it was with leggings, but ridiculously more successful and attractive on more than the anorectic, old will be new again. Hello, David Duchovny. Congrats on your big, shiny golden globe. How ‘bout I show you something from my X Files?

It might just be best to go to bed. Maybe until the Oscars.