Sometimes I pity the non-gossip media. While most "respectable" entertainment journalists earn their weekly pay reporting on such trivial matters as “who won the Golden Globes,” I have the privilege — nay, the honor — of dealing with burgeoning celebrity feuds, romances, bromances and, of course, the appearance of Heath Ledger’s ghost to collect his awards statues. Too soon?

But that’s not to say the awards ceremony — itself a microcosm of Hollywood’s vanity, pettiness and downright bitchiness — didn’t provide its share of buzz, courtesy of some of our favorite stars and starlets. To the eyes of red-carpet paparazzi, focused only on panty flashes and weight gains, Brangelina’s awkward snub of Ryan Seacrest might have seemed cruel. But perhaps the pair was too distracted by Miley Cyrus’s own pair to give a decent interview. After all, those things — which, assisted by a push-up bra, stuck out like beach balls floating in a bathtub — were the real Golden Globes. On the awards stage, Zac Efron continues to be living proof that, in Hollywood, looks can compensate for poor acting, a poor personality and even poor reading skills. Efron stumbled over his cue cards like a freshman stumbling home from Skeeps. Yet he still earns the admiration and flirtation of über-gorgeous “Transformers” star Megan Fox, who once drunkenly declared her love for Zac: “I’m obsessed with him…. It’s like Janet and Michael Jackson, we are the same person.” That last phrase is open to interpretation, but if they ever make a film of Nabokov’s incest tale “Ada, or Ardor,” Fox is definitely first in line to play Ada Veen.

Speaking of pretty boys, the surprise of the night was a big Best Actor in a Musical or Comedy win for — pause for a moment — Colin Farrell. I figured Farrell was either holed-up in a Dublin hostel living on whiskey, peanuts and three redheaded lasses, or on top of Mount Kilimanjaro, on acid, staring into the sun. But not only did he actually attend the ceremony, he didn’t even appear (that) drunk.

We’ve talked about quite a few beautiful people, so let’s switch gears for a moment and discuss Amy Winehouse. It’s all over for Winehouse and her equally besotted beau Blake Fielder-Civil; Fielder-Civil filed for divorce three days ago on the grounds of “Amy’s adultery.” Not surprising, considering photos of Amy canoodling and gallivanting (or any other baroque words for “hooking up” that come to mind) around St. Lucia with tall, dark and handsome Joshua Bowman are all over the Interweb. Winehouse justified her infidelity, saying, probably through the end of a crack pipe, that “Blake was rubbish in bed,” and that “Every single time I slept with him it was like I was dead.” Sheesh. I’m not sure who I pity more: The next young actor who has to stick it in (the needle, that is) Winehouse, or the next tenderfoot model who sleeps with Madonna to further his own career.

While we’re on the topic of self-centered singers with self-esteem issues, let me introduce my new favorite celebrity feud: Katy Perry and Lily Allen. I’ll admit this tiff earns some Daily Double points because both singers happen to be lovely brunettes, even if only one of them is actually talented. (Hint: She’s never written a song about lesbianism that caused real lesbians to start anonymous hate blogs.) But what really sticks out about this cyber-quarrel is that it’s mostly carried out through interviews, Facebook and their websites (I’m not even sure if the two have met in person). It bears a striking resemblance to the catfights between those two popular girls in your ninth grade class. You know, the ones everyone assumed were best friends because they were both blonde cheerleaders and in the same clique, when, in reality, they hated each other.

First, little Katy calls little Lily fat.