I read the New Yorker story "Creatures," but what I remembered about it tended to dissipate in the pageantry of the Golden Globes.  The show of the crazy, image obsessed screen holograms whose hard work, passion from an early age, and bond with cast and crew dominate their work.  The actors we honor with their green juices, youth elixirs, botox, fad diets, and tendency to call what they do a "job" and being on the job.  Many of the actors came up and thanked their crew, claiming that the odd, intensely communal existence of the shoot brought them closest to the crew and cast.  The crew, the unseen and invisible handymen who inevitably form bonds with the actors.  I see the actors and faces of Hollywood that digest national calamities with "Feed the World" songs as a sounding board for national ills.  The somewhat vulnerable and sensitive, required to maintain a polished image for HD, ambassadors on the state of America.  In 2010, the awards ceremonies reflected the wake of the earthquake in Haiti and economic problems in the US, tearful celebrities thanked their spouses almost first, like now they mention their crew.  They seem to be our official face when we are wracked with calamity or not, even Clinton coming out in his less than glorious retirement to commend the portrayal of a president on the celluloid screen, acting as himself recalling his acting as a president.  I see their formal reception and internalization of the national state of mind as somewhat tragic.  Much as I saw my professor talking and philosophizing about human ills, her intellectual detachment somewhat shaken by the fact that she sometimes felt ungood even in class.  When those who comment on our condition, reflect it, or seem to sit behind an unreal screen of it, are themselves vulnerable to it, our condition is doubly vulnerable.  Actors exclusively represented a glossy version of our somewhat past reality that's okay to talk about now (Zero Dark Thirty, Lincoln), moreso in the days before the internet when film and publishing companies mostly had control of content.  Now they must reflect and dialogue with the internet.  Thankfully there were no lifetime achievement awards for Grumpy Cat or a Twitter feed above the screen like there was for the hurricane concert.  Similar to the tragic nature of a femme fatale breaking down or being of frail health in an exquisite dress, red lips, and pancake makeup, trying to hold it together despite mascara running..  Keeping up appearances in itself can be inherently tragic.  The refusal to rest, to laugh in spite of the threat of chaos, if the straps on one's boots start to fray.  Laughter in crisis, dressing up to pick up the garbage, spritzing on perfume, it depresses me more than taking care of oneself, more than submitting to the cocoon of self preservation.  Even if it's necessary to stay alive.