Throughout this weekend writer Ray Lemoine and others will be contributing short bits of coverage to Defamer from the front lines of the Golden Globes party scene. The first dispatch comes from M.R. Herman.

All it took to get into the W Magazine party at the Chateau Marmont was wearing a tux and acting like security for an actress who thought I worked for the hotel. "How do we get up there?" she asked in the elevator. "Push the button," I said.

The door opened into a hallway. A voice whispered "Dom?" as hotel owner Andre Balazs greeted people with wine glasses full of champagne. While he was trying to figure out how he knew me, I was just as confused: why weren't they serving the champagne in flutes?

The room opened up. Marisa Tomei turned around and we locked eyes. She was standing with a crew of older men though she seemed to be checking me out. A true cougar in a loose red blouse.

Respective fame forcefields Cate Blanchett and Kirsten Dunst lingered on opposite sides of the room. Kate Husdon walked in wearing a snakeskin coat, the room seduced by her dynastic glow. A photographer asked Hudson to snap a pic and she obliged.

"Did you just grab my ass?" Hudson asked the guy standing next to her.

"I would like nothing less," he replied.

She laughed, "Kiss me!" They kissed. I never knew it was that easy to get laid in Hollywood.

Hudson's promiscuity on my mind, I again locked eyes with Tomei. I wondered if I should go full Hudson on her and just grab her ass. Actress Cate Blanchett and director Steve McQueen hung in conversation. Blanchett was comparing still photos to moving pictures and McQueen was transfixed. She ended the conversation by screaming, "You know you're winning on Sunday. I hope you know that!" Then Blanchett was disappeared by handlers.

Bradley Cooper showed up in a suit with no tie and looked so bored I felt the need to interject. "Bradley, you need drink, right?"

"What. Me?"

"Uh, yeah you."

"Brad, nice to meet you." We shook hands and he ignored the drink offer. He quickly dissed me to hit on a tall bird in the corner, leaning in for some deep conversation.

The night loosened up. Bret Easton Ellis sat Instagramming Apple billboards and Tomei caught some prey, sitting on the couch with a tween looking dude in a sweet sweater vest. I was thinking that nothing could make the evening better until the soggy Cronuts, shipped in from New York's Dominique Ansel Bakery, arrived. Margeret Cho spilled some Dom on me amidst a Cronut frenzy. "At least it was expensive champagne," she quipped.

Down the block, Audi threw a party at Ceconni's. Scores of Hollywood cliches crowded a marble bar. It was all like a scene out of Entourage. Then I spotted Angela Kinsey from The Office dancing like a maniac with her boyfriend, who looked nothing like Dwight Schrute. I left to join director Grant Singer and actress Isabelle McNally, daughter of Keith from Balthazar, at a pseudo-dive bar, where I encountered my fifth expensive menu of the evening. Like much of young Hollywood, the Globes meant nothing to them.

We were greeted at our hotel by a rollerblading woman with dreads. After following us into our room, she whipped out some speed. And, like a true Hollywood diva, she demanded we turn off the the fan so she could light her meth pipe. Then, after smoking some ice, she disappeared.