I watched the Oscars too. Okay, at home. On my couch. In my sweats. With Jon, who played Melissa to my Joan. But we were there. I don't know that I've ever watched them before. I think I have seen repeat clips, including but not limited to some old guy who won dropping and doing push-ups. Name escapes me, as did the interest to ever watch them in full. You may wonder what the result of the evening was. Well, first and foremost, I lost the betting pool we had going. Apparently I suck at mindreading the academy. That makes some $20 I've lost in gambling endeavours to my friends this weekend. I turned off the tv with the sinking feeling that I *might* have just wasted 2 hours of my life, shock and awe at the fact that Jamie Foxx's speech made me cry (although his movie didn't), and a compulsion to apply as a seat-filler for next year, to help them save face. I mean, as long as they continue giving awards in the aisles, who could resist?
THE BASICS
The way I see it, the Oscars are a comedy of the absurd. It's beautiful, rich people celebrating themselves. They do so in song. And if you're beautiful and rich in 2005, this song might happen twice, both times by Beyonce, with significant costume change. Some stars who absolutely do not belong on the scene make appearances to be sure that they, too, are counted in the census of the beautiful and rich untouchables. Enter Prince. "This evening, Prince (twirl) is wearing a silky purple jacket ensemble with white palazzo pants". You know it's bad when they let Antonio Banderas sing but you don't. This is when you take them up on the "regrets" part of RSVP, bro!
THE CATFIGHT
The Academy, much like San Quentin Prison, recognizes the ethnic groupings of its inmates. Why else would Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek present together? I don't know if they don't like each other or if they were just pissed to appear onstage in matching hairdos. I would be. I get the feeling Salma's the smart one and Penelope is the barbie of the two, but in any case, it was very, very weird. They gave each other one fake smile. I think it was more that Penelope grinned at Salma and caught her unexpectedly, so Salma forced one back. If they'd been kept on camera 5 minutes longer, I think we might have been graced with a Million Pesos Baby reenactment. Then maybe Beyonce could sing for us again.
RETURN OF 90S POPSTERS
Oh, Counting Crows! THERE you are! I've been looking for you! Not. A few weeks ago, a friend told me that Adam Duritz's hair is a wig given to him by his father. Contemplating this factoid was the only fascinating thing about their performance. That and wondering if Jennifer Aniston would even consider him while on the rebound.
WHO ARE THE PRETTY PEOPLE?
Guaranteed next year's presenters will be uglier. This year they outshined the actresses. You saw them - the tall, georgeous women in gold dresses. That's like bridesmaids upstaging the brides. And when you have actresses with questionable fashion taste (hi Kristin Dunst), well, you have to take measures.
OH, SO THAT'S HOW SHE GOT IT
I have spent quite a while wondering how Sandra Oh got the role in Sideways. Then the screenwriters won and came up to thank their wives. Oh, looky here! Sandra Oh is one of them.
BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT
In an effort to reduce the physical strain of walking up to the stage, the Academy now awards winners in the aisles. They run a dizzying camera down the aisle where the nominees are seated, and the winner comes to the mic to accept, much like the question-and-answer sessions following a David Sedaris show. Only not funny. Just insulting.
THE NEXT KARATE KID
Won the Oscar. Enough said. See you next year when Son of Mask sweeps...
RELATIONSHIP RULE #1
Oh, come on. As if it's going to be that easy. That's the bad news. The good news is that you're not the first to think so.
Today I declared to a friend that I'd learned that, in relationships, "Actions speak louder than words". It felt monumental to write out in an email and push "send". I felt like the scientist who discovered, I dunno, that cells divide. I had discovered The Truth. But the truth is that I was just finding ways to make myself feel productive on a Monday. In a typical friends-of-Lilly(tm) rapidfire email exchange, he agreed that he would subscribe to my rule, which caught me off guard. I had to go back and correct my mistake before I became Her Befuddled Guru of Messy Relationships. I went back to the chalkboard with this tidbit:
"you can learn the rule as many times as you like. I learned the rule years ago, and never implemented. i like to *say* i will implement, because it makes me feel that i've learned something. if it were easy to apply rules to matters of the heart, there would be no heartbreak, everyone would be settled down, and books like "He's Just Not That Into You" wouldn't sell zillions of copies. It's not stuff women don't know ("if he doesn't call you, he isn't into you"; "if he tells you he loves you but you haven't met a single friend, he isn't into you", "if he sleeps with you and disappears for a month, he isn't into you"). we know it. we just forget in the face of romance or a cutie or a few martinis. everyone does. and so spins the wheel."
It's almost like, as a society, we have a wicked case of willful amnesia.
Today I declared to a friend that I'd learned that, in relationships, "Actions speak louder than words". It felt monumental to write out in an email and push "send". I felt like the scientist who discovered, I dunno, that cells divide. I had discovered The Truth. But the truth is that I was just finding ways to make myself feel productive on a Monday. In a typical friends-of-Lilly(tm) rapidfire email exchange, he agreed that he would subscribe to my rule, which caught me off guard. I had to go back and correct my mistake before I became Her Befuddled Guru of Messy Relationships. I went back to the chalkboard with this tidbit:
"you can learn the rule as many times as you like. I learned the rule years ago, and never implemented. i like to *say* i will implement, because it makes me feel that i've learned something. if it were easy to apply rules to matters of the heart, there would be no heartbreak, everyone would be settled down, and books like "He's Just Not That Into You" wouldn't sell zillions of copies. It's not stuff women don't know ("if he doesn't call you, he isn't into you"; "if he tells you he loves you but you haven't met a single friend, he isn't into you", "if he sleeps with you and disappears for a month, he isn't into you"). we know it. we just forget in the face of romance or a cutie or a few martinis. everyone does. and so spins the wheel."
It's almost like, as a society, we have a wicked case of willful amnesia.
Suckybowl Sunday
When I heard that Paul McCartney was the talent lined up for this year's Superbowl Half-Time Show, I knew I wouldn't be watching. Not just halftime, the whole game. I'm out about this now. Closeted-no-more! I don't care about football! Woo hoo! I mean, sometimes I do. I care if my friend's fiance makes a team he wants to be on so they can live a blissful life. Why do I care about this? Well, clearly I want somewhere nice to go when I need a break from my apartment, the year 2024, peopled only by dusty books and underfed ants and maybe Pele if he takes pity on me...
I took a moment to wonder today if I could be deported for not liking football. I mean, is my commentary about not caring about the Great American Sport (which is only such when baseball is not in season, conveniently) dangerous to my citizenship status? Could I be kicked out of the good ole U.S. of A for being "UnAmerican"? I mean, where does the insanity end? One day it's incendiary political words inciting action that can get you your own "1br/1bath with view; on the Bay" (of Guantanamo...), but with the Patriots taking it for the third time, were I to (in a fictional word, I assure you, Mr. Gonzales, but thanks for dropping by...) speak *against* His Royal Bradyness, would INS show up at my door?
Then I remembered I was born here. Phew.
Yeah, so the Superbowl doesn't really affect you if you don't want it to. I thought I'd go to Borders and sit and read, figuring it would be empty, but as I maneuvered my car in that direction (northward, for ye who are interested), I realized that the nerds would come out! It would not be empty and read-able, but rather, Borders would be overrun by fellow bookworms, losers, American misfits. I turned the car around and came back home.
Which would have been fine, but for the fact that my garage door opener expired this afternoon. It fucking broke, that's what I mean. And not just in a "please replace the battery" way, but in a "busted open completely unprovoked" way. I sat for 20 minutes behind the garage door, visualizing how happy I would be when it jumped back to life, but no dice. No dice and, as it were, no cars either. I sat in my car for 20 minutes watching nothing happen. Not one person ventured out in the time I sat there. OF COURSE. And the meters in the neighborhood? - Full. OF COURSE. Eventually, I parked a few streets away and made my way back home in a caravan of self-pity. When I came home, I immediately began wrestling with a mini-screwdriver (the real kind, although, in retrospect, a little OJ and vodka would have done the trick). I heard a little something or other clatter out of the opener and on to the kitchen floor, but I couldn't find it, not knowing what I was looking for. I got on my hands and knees and fished around, and coming up with only a handful of questionable food crumbs, I gave up.
Someone remind me to move my car in the morning?
So that's Superbowl Sunday over here. I checked the score from time to time on my laptop, hearing my upstairs neighbor (yes, THAT ONE) and his friends erupt into cheers with a 4 second delay. Then I went to work out and read about rappers who have been shot. Because if that didn't put me in a better mood, nothing would. A few fairy tales from the faraway kingdom of Compton later, perspective has been restored. I'm still annoyed, but, lacking caps to bust in negligent asses, I'm going to make myself a sandwich.
I took a moment to wonder today if I could be deported for not liking football. I mean, is my commentary about not caring about the Great American Sport (which is only such when baseball is not in season, conveniently) dangerous to my citizenship status? Could I be kicked out of the good ole U.S. of A for being "UnAmerican"? I mean, where does the insanity end? One day it's incendiary political words inciting action that can get you your own "1br/1bath with view; on the Bay" (of Guantanamo...), but with the Patriots taking it for the third time, were I to (in a fictional word, I assure you, Mr. Gonzales, but thanks for dropping by...) speak *against* His Royal Bradyness, would INS show up at my door?
Then I remembered I was born here. Phew.
Yeah, so the Superbowl doesn't really affect you if you don't want it to. I thought I'd go to Borders and sit and read, figuring it would be empty, but as I maneuvered my car in that direction (northward, for ye who are interested), I realized that the nerds would come out! It would not be empty and read-able, but rather, Borders would be overrun by fellow bookworms, losers, American misfits. I turned the car around and came back home.
Which would have been fine, but for the fact that my garage door opener expired this afternoon. It fucking broke, that's what I mean. And not just in a "please replace the battery" way, but in a "busted open completely unprovoked" way. I sat for 20 minutes behind the garage door, visualizing how happy I would be when it jumped back to life, but no dice. No dice and, as it were, no cars either. I sat in my car for 20 minutes watching nothing happen. Not one person ventured out in the time I sat there. OF COURSE. And the meters in the neighborhood? - Full. OF COURSE. Eventually, I parked a few streets away and made my way back home in a caravan of self-pity. When I came home, I immediately began wrestling with a mini-screwdriver (the real kind, although, in retrospect, a little OJ and vodka would have done the trick). I heard a little something or other clatter out of the opener and on to the kitchen floor, but I couldn't find it, not knowing what I was looking for. I got on my hands and knees and fished around, and coming up with only a handful of questionable food crumbs, I gave up.
Someone remind me to move my car in the morning?
So that's Superbowl Sunday over here. I checked the score from time to time on my laptop, hearing my upstairs neighbor (yes, THAT ONE) and his friends erupt into cheers with a 4 second delay. Then I went to work out and read about rappers who have been shot. Because if that didn't put me in a better mood, nothing would. A few fairy tales from the faraway kingdom of Compton later, perspective has been restored. I'm still annoyed, but, lacking caps to bust in negligent asses, I'm going to make myself a sandwich.
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