This time of year, my inner gay-man is out!

You folks haven’t seen my inner gay man since last year’s Oscars but he’s in there, and he’s just chomping at the bit trying to get out and gush or bitch at the gowns as Hollywood begins its season of self-congratulations.

I miss my brother, S. He and I used to watch the “red carpet” walks while on the phone with each other, and no one was bitchier than he, particularly if a dress was so full of fronds and flowers that it seemed to be eating a woman alive. This year, I’m going to have to do it by myself. There is, of course, The Manolo’s Carnivale of Couture which can go a little ways toward assuaging my need to view beautiful and hideous clothing and indulge in the utterly superficial sport of actually caring about clothes, and yes, there is always Go Fug Yourself, but still, it’s not the same.

In honor of my brother, I will save the fun fashion schtick for the Oscars, but I couldn’t let the Golden Globes get away without commenting on a few dresses.

For instance, what WAS the normally beautifully turned out Reese Witherspoon thinking?

I know she was playing a country gal in channeling June Carter Cash, but this thing looked like a Betty Crocker apron over a spangly dress! What were we saying here, Reese, “Mother-of-the-bride-selfcaters-wedding-in-church-basement”? I don’t THINK so!

Penelope Cruz – beautiful girl, love the pink dress – it’s a winner – but honey, EAT A SANDWICH, you are beginning to look like a giant pink Pez dispenser! I fear someone will pull back your hair and your mouth will open to show us a half-digested tofu product!

Melanie Griffith, on the other hand, is beginning to look frighteningly like a bed-worn Norma Desmond, if Norma Desmond had ever conceived of having many pounds of fat injected into her top…her TOP…lip. Not the brightest light in the fridge, our Mel.

Marcia Cross wore something almost-classic and almost fabulous! The color didn’t quite cut it – not quite orange, not quite salmon, it just doesn’t work with anyone’s skin tone, except George Hamilton’s does it? The shoulder jewelry almost makes it look like a paper-doll-changable outfit. Just bend the tabs. And really…she needed a good foundation garment. Just a little LIFT, the tiniest bit of…UP. Think UP. When we get into our late thirties or so, it’s imperative that we think UP.

Gwyneth is pregnant. Which is beautiful. She’s wearing the nursery’s curtains to give them a good airing. Part Jane Austin, part Elizabeth I, this dress continues Gwynnie’s tradition of showing her disdain for the world through fabric. Her face looks quite pretty, though. Buster, who does not like Gwynnie because she reminds him of The Cows of Adare disagrees and suggests that when Borden Dairy products came up with the “contented cow” slogan, they had Gwynnie in mind. I think that’s mean.

Ah, here we go: There is always one girl who gets eaten by her dress:

This time it’s Charlize’s turn.

Jessica Alba, you are soooo pretty…

And this dress would look so lovely on someone taller…or older. It would have been an absolutely perfect dress, for example, for Geena Davis,

who has once again indulged her success with excess. Lots of excess. A six foot tall Titan in a fire-engine red dress, in screaming satin, WITH spangles AND ruffles? (I’m shuddering, really). Jessica Alba’s too-long dress would have humanized and slimmed-out Gigantor-Davis.

Jessica could have worn Natalie Portman’s dress,

especially since Portman was too thin for it. Poor, malnourished Natalie clearly needs something from the “consumption chic” line, which I expect we’ll be seeing any day, now.

As you can see here, I am faithful to my obsessions. I’d still rather look at Katharine Hepburn. Or Audrey. Or even Liz.

UPDATED: Ann Althouse Simulblogged the event and has some good comments on clothes. I confess, on the rare chance that I get to watch it, I like “Project Runway,” too.

Debbie Schlussel has information about the Golden Globes’ political considerations of some awards, of which I knew nothing about…but they do not surprise…it’s the Hollywood Foreign Press, after all.