I was going to leave this post at that, just because the sheer absurdity of that single phrase speaks volumes, but there's too much else to talk about right now, and I'm still digesting that we just gave a pig a buttermilk bath. If I dare to comment much further, my head will explode. Suffice to say, Orville is now fresh as a daisy, free to resume wallowing in his own filth.
As I stated a while back, now that I'm a Hollywoodian, I feel it my civic duty to keep tabs on the various award shows and such. And Sunday was Oscar night. Probably less than 2 miles from here, the film royalty descended on my 'hood for its latest love fest. I'm trying to get with the program, but not so much so that I was conscious enough to realize we now live on the west coast, and that it starts at 5 o'clcok here, not 8. So we missed the first hour or so I guess.
I'm not gonna give a blow by blow, but just a few observations. I thought Ellen did a pretty solid job. I find her pleasantly entertaining. Not gut-bustingly funny, but she definitely elicits chuckles from me. I thought the bit with Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg was particularly funny. That said, the Godfather himself, Spielberg, had the throwaway line of the night in my estimation. When he was on the mic with Coppola and Lucas, the three of them representing, I don't know, 3 billion dollars of movie wealth, he said to them, "spread out," like he was Moe to their Curly and Larry.
When Celine Dionne came on, I took that as an opportunity to skip out to grab us some dinner. I know it was Sunday night and all, but the streets were remarkably empty. Like there literally has been a local mandate for all of Hollywood to be home watching. I felt like a vigilante, stealthily evading the Oscar police as I made my way through the streets. As I came out of the 7-11, I saw a stretch limo race by. I imagined a disgruntled loser from one of the earlier awards, maybe Eddie Murphy or someone, getting a jump start on drowning his sorrows at either one of the post-Oscar parties, or at one of the local strip clubs.
Over the years, Bubba and I, as I would venture to say, 100% of all artists and 99% of all non-artists have done, have imagined our own victory speech we'd give. We always chide each other that we each damn well never pull a Hillary Swank, and fail to mention our better half. The one proviso is, God would get mentioned first. So it's like, God gets top billing and I or she would be 1A. As such, we can't help but notice who mentions God in their speeches. And remarkably, EVERY black aritst mentions God, and EVERY white artist does not. Amazingly consistent. Sure enough, at least out of what I saw, Jennifer Holiday (twice) and Forrest Whitaker were the only ones who mentioned God. I'm not here to make any socio/theological judgements. It's merely an observation. Do with it what you will. I just think it's interesting.
I don't know what's next on the awards docket 'round here. I've GOT to think there's at least a bit of a lull. Or at least a switch of medium, from film to music or something. Surely at SOME point the glad-handing has to stop long enough for people to actually produce new product, to subsequently glad-hand. Let's hope.
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