The Geneva Conventions declare clearly that party hopping is not intended to be a contact sport. It was at The Golden Globes.

Mike Grebb and I left HBO’s hopping gala at 10pm (see previous post) to look in on our friends at NBC, who were hosting a rooftop do.

First bit of luck for NBC (or anyone hosting an outdoor party), the weather all weekend was gorgeous. Sunday the Mercury reached not quite 80, and the evening climate was perfect, perhaps 65, with barely a trace of wind.

Having arrived more than 2 hours after the party began, it was not apparent what theme NBC’s designers were going for, but using large mirrors, chandeliers, white candles and yards of black silk-looking material, the covered portion of the rooftop was utterly elegant. With food and drink flowing freely, it was like partying on the set of Phantom of the Opera.

With plenty of room at the bar, getting a drink was easy, and moving to the uncovered outdoor portion of the party offered a chance to chat away from the pounding dance music inside. Great thinking by NBC, having outdoor and indoor venues, something for everyone.

After several laps around the room (I searched for Jessica Alba to no avail, maybe I didn’t recognize her in her new short hair cut), we decided to spend quality time al fresco with the PR and marketing crew from AMC, which was elated to have a 2nd Globe for Mad Men and who did not utter a cross word about the series’ creator, the apparently still unsigned Matthew Weiner. About an hour later we headed back down to the pool for round two of HBO.

Tactical error. The line of gowned women and tuxedoed men waiting to enter (or re-enter) the HBO soiree was long. At that moment I realized why HBO had won so many Globes—not only had the Hollywood Foreign Press Association judged the Box’s work superior, it was hoping to score a few tickets to HBO’s party.

I’d had enough of the Globes by this point; we’d started our day at the Hilton at 3pm, some 2 hours before the Globes show and about 8 hours ago. But Mike Grebb, hearty fellow and good journalist, wanted at least one more drink on HBO’s ledger. He was determined to re-enter the party. So were plenty of others, some of whom didn’t wish to stand in line. Oh, the innocence of life in the bubble.  Instead, they assembled near the ropes and told security they should gain entry because they’re stars. But an earpiece and a headset are Hollywood’s version of the great equalizer. These “stars” had to wait. The rest of us—stars in our own minds—giggled silently.

We’ll not reveal the identities of those who were negotiating, loudly at times, with security personnel, but avid cable watchers would know their faces, if not their names.

Jon Voight wasn’t among them. Angelina’s daddy was recognized and ushered in without delay. He left the party about 20 minutes later, his white hair looking elegant atop a black tux. We were waiting still, as were a few of the “stars.”

Eventually all of them and their entourages were in, leaving a load of well-dressed stragglers—including us—outside. At the 40-minute mark, Grebb turned to me, “Now this is personal. We’re getting inside,” he said sternly. Yes, there was the spitfire and determination that permeated the team that churned out a vaunted cable daily, er, daily.

Eventually we made it to the promised land, passing Rainn Wilson on the stairs as he left the party. He must have been the only one. Even at midnight, the place was packed, the dance floor was full, the DJ’s music at full blast and the bar was struggling to find clean glasses.

The mandatory two laps around the premises at midnight showed a crowd thick with Hollywood types and no paucity of actors, from HBO and other outlets, most being 30 and under. There was Mad Men’s John Slattery drinking with Rich Sommer (obviously rehearsing a scene), Big Love’s Ginnifer Goodwin shoeless, a slew of cast members from The Office, In Treatment’s Melissa George, striking in a pale green gown even after midnight, and character actor Chris Bauer, taller and slimmer than he appears on screen http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0061777/

As we left, there was Jeremy Piven walking around near the party’s  entrance. Much like the US at the moment, he appeared to be looking desperately for someone, something. Perhaps he was thinking about the next party.

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