Sunday, March 05, 2006
"It's Almost As Though You Can't Control What Other People Think"
Because I am married, I had to watch the Oscars. Single hetero men don't have to watch the Oscars, but they are not watching the Oscars while eating the non-moldy parts of some old tortillas and dry packets of Lipton onion soup. I had a nice bubbly tray of home-made cavatini to eat from. Marriage has its advantages.
I didn't watch any of the pre-show or the pre-pre-show or the pre-pre-pre show (we actually have this crap ALL DAY LONG out here on the local stations in the greater LA market, but that's OK because our local news anchorwomen look really hot in them dresses) because there is NOTHING that makes me more uncomfortable than watching stupid people being asked stupid questions by other stupid people. Celebrities being interviewed by "entertainment reporters"... it's a nexus of stupid powerful enough to disrupt the magnetic and gravitational fields that surround, stabilize and protect the earth. And that is why LA has earthquakes.
I love Jon Stewart, which is why I SO did not want to see him host this show. It's an unholy time-sucking exercise in awkwardness and flop-sweat as the thing inevitably shoots off course and OH YES! Also has insanely high global visibility.
So I didn't watch his opening monologue. After Joke #1 was met with crickets and Joke #2 seemed to be inviting thrown vegetables, I ran up stairs, crawled under my bed, stuck my thumbs in my ears and sobbed until I threw up. Jon and I spend a lot of time together, usually on Fridays when I watch a week's worth of Daily Show to get me through my laundry-folding and other sundry housewifery. Our deal is I watch the show and he sends me subtle hints that are meant JUST FOR ME to let me know he knows I'm watching and which jokes are specifically meant to amuse me. Sometimes it's a hand signal, sometimes a facial expression or sometimes a subtle phrase that will let me know the following is just between us. Our current secret pass-phrase is "Welcome Back To The Show."
Our relationship being what it is, I couldn't just sit there and watch him bomb in front of Ryan Phillippe. I mean seriously, who the fuck does Ryan Phillippe think he is? Being there in the audience and everything, part of a crowd of people sent from who-knows-where to sit in judgment of my pal Jon... the whole thing smacks of anti-Semitism.
But then Jon got better as the night went on and I let Ryan and his fellow audience brethren off the hook and went back to thinking of him as Reese Witherspoon's pale shadow.
Of all the films nominated, I'd only seen Munich and Good Night and Good Luck, which sounds bad, but considering this is the first time in about three years I'd seen ANY nominated movies, well, it was a virtual smorgasbord of partial context. I at least had a piece of a rooting interest in several categories, if only because I knew--KNEW--Munich sucked and shouldn't be allowed to win anything. Which it wasn't.
Anyways, the show... blah blah Clooney blah blah Weisz blah blah... hang on, did that just say "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp"? Hott. Maybe that will win. What's with the dancers in front of the rappers, though? And that girl singing isn't bad... hey, she's coming forward for the last chorus of the song a capella... this should be--OH SWEET MOTHER OF JESUS! Make her STOP! Oh the shrieky. The horrible, horrible off-key shrieky-shrieky... now it will never--OH HOLY SHIT IT WON! Now more rap songs have officially won Oscars than Grammys with a grand total of One. I guess we can't blame the Grammys because they have to hold that Best Album space just in case Jackson Browne decides to roll out another career retrospective.
OK, more show... blah blah P. S. Hoffman blah blah Reese... she gave a very poised speech for someone two years younger than me... too poised, if you ask me, which merely confirms my theory that Reese Witherspoon is a Femme-Bot sent here to conquer the world and then kill all men. And it just keeps getting worse for Ryan Phillippe.
Almost home... blah blah Ang Lee blah blah... Oh, hey, Crash won. Does this mean it's over? Does this mean I can swallow the 30 Xanax I've had in my mouth for 20 minutes as I contemplated the cost-benefit analysis of finishing the Oscars or ending my life? Really, it's OK if I die, it's not like I have anything to--what was... was that a... hang on, I can rewind live TV... right there, that girl in the orange strapless hanging out with the Crash people... did I just see a... OH MY GOD THAT WAS A NIPPLE. AN OSCARS NIPPLE! ON TV! Wardrobe malfunction!
Spit out the Xanax, Daddy wants to live. There are trees and flowers and birds singing and nipples on network TV.
God bless you, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. God bless you.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 4.6
PS- the title of this post is a direct quote from Jon Stewart from a radio interview he gave on Friday to the station I listen to. One of the interviewers was complaining about the negative perception of Letterman's and Chris Rock's gigs as host. He answered with the above quote. And that's when I knew our Jonny was gonna be OK. Even though his monologue sucked.