![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Bad night for mothers, the 79th Annual Academy Awards. Only four winners thanked theirs. (I counted!)
• Guy who won best short subject for West Side Story comic homage set on West Bank
• Woman who won for Marie Antoinette costumes
• Jennifer Hudson
• Forrest Whittaker (I think. I might have started dozing off.)
The Oscars are always fun to watch, though seldom in the way their producers intend. How else would you know that the scariest movie monster of 2006 was Sherry Lansing whose plastic surgeon had apparently worked over every part of her body except her neck and forearms? It was deeply disturbing to watch this lollipop-perfect face bobbing around atop this corded and withered throat while those puny little arms writhed in terpsichorean syncopation. Killer dress though!
Runners-up in the celebrity horror show department:
Jack Nicholson's head! Big as the moon, bald, moated with swimming chins!
Reese Witherspoon's chin! Has it always been there? Why haven't I noticed it before? I imagine it could poke pretty hard during intimate moments. Is that why Ryan Philippe was forced to seek extra-marital consolation?
I note that this year they did not give out the coveted Six-Months-After-You-Get-This-You'll-Drop-Dead award. It sure put the whammy on poor Mr. Altman last year. Or maybe they did give it out and I just fell asleep?
Jennifer Hudson half nipple clearly visible during the Dreamgirls belting match. I didn't vote for her on American Idol and I wouldn't vote for her now. Belting is fine – in its place. Most songs are better when they are sung, however.
Good God, Peter O'Toole is old. I remember the time Bibbit and I got dressed up in burnooses and stood in front of the Northpoint Theater for hours so we could be first in line to buy tickets for a Lawrence of Arabia revival. (Aqaba! Aqaba!) Maybe it is a good thing that Bibbit and I fell out of touch (though her loss is one of those secret wounds in my soul.) Wherever she is today, she was crying last night.
All in all, show was good for my ego. At almost fifty-five, I look a lot better than most of the similarly-aged glammed up specimens in the audience – always excepting Helen Mirren, of course, who looks just amazing. Maybe I should let my hair go white…
###
In other news, I fell into a deep, irremediable depression around noon yesterday.
Maybe it was the rain. The Little Store'd had such a good weekend up till then! But nobody goes out into the rain.
Maybe it was the sight of Bozo scuttling around with his it's-a-keyboard-but-I'm-pretending-it's-an-electric-guitar between showers, trying to wring out a buck. Bozo has fallen upon hard times since the beauty queen absconded. It turns out that nobody really wanted to buy Bozo's CD's. They merely wanted to ogle Bozo's tits, let themselves be enveloped in warm waves of Anaconda Insta-Friendship. For that, they were willing to pony up cash.
Bozo has fallen upon hard times. "He's having a hard time making the rent," Mitch the face painter told me.
"He should seriously consider hiring a girl to do the pitch work," I told Mitch.
He's got his oldest son Bozo Jr. filling in for Anaconda, selling the CD's. Bozo Jr. is a very nice young man but he looks like an axe murderer. Nobody's gonna buy smooth jazz to light up the moments of their lives from Bozo Jr.
Or maybe it was looking at all those old photographs. I know for a fact that I was pret-ty darn miserable around the time I had Max. But look at those photographs! I look so… happy! Maybe I was happy! Maybe I'm misremembering the past, maybe Bill and I had a wonderful marriage, maybe Jim Carrey kidnapped me at gunpoint and then ran me through the super secret Happy Memory Jumbletron to destroy those recollections of a sunshinier day!
The depression took a peculiar form: I ached inside. I felt lonely.
This was odd since I spent the majority of the day on the phone.
First with Marybeth whose aunt had just died. Said aunt's middle-aged offspring had spent their mother's last conscious moments stripping her nursing home room of all valuables and wrestling the rings from her fingers. (I kid you not!) Marybeth and I spent a companionable half hour speculating what life form said offspring would be reincarnated as.
Then with Annie who called to discuss Britney Spears' deteriorating mental condition, Stew's upcoming dental work and the most recent escalation of the Alicia/Uncle Rik blood feud. Forty-five minutes.
Finally with Diana whose photo book is coming out in six weeks and wants me to do a marketing plan. (Which I am happy to do – I love Diana.) That ate up an hour.
I teetered home in a most fragmented psychic state. Checked in with Robin who'd spent the rainy day doing hours of homework and watching the Law & Order SVU marathon on the USA Network.
"And do you know what my favorite episode was, Mom? It was the one where the 12 year old kid was accused of being the murderer – except it wasn't the 12-year old kid, it was the 12 year old kid's fraternal twin brother who wasn't his brother anymore because they turned him into a girl when they botched cutting off his foreskin and why did you have me circumcised anyway?"
"Uh – I really don't remember, honey," I said weakly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. And anyway, I covered all angles, didn't I? That's why I named you Robin! Works for a boy or a girl! See? Mommy's always thinking ahead!"
• Guy who won best short subject for West Side Story comic homage set on West Bank
• Woman who won for Marie Antoinette costumes
• Jennifer Hudson
• Forrest Whittaker (I think. I might have started dozing off.)
The Oscars are always fun to watch, though seldom in the way their producers intend. How else would you know that the scariest movie monster of 2006 was Sherry Lansing whose plastic surgeon had apparently worked over every part of her body except her neck and forearms? It was deeply disturbing to watch this lollipop-perfect face bobbing around atop this corded and withered throat while those puny little arms writhed in terpsichorean syncopation. Killer dress though!
Runners-up in the celebrity horror show department:
Jack Nicholson's head! Big as the moon, bald, moated with swimming chins!
Reese Witherspoon's chin! Has it always been there? Why haven't I noticed it before? I imagine it could poke pretty hard during intimate moments. Is that why Ryan Philippe was forced to seek extra-marital consolation?
I note that this year they did not give out the coveted Six-Months-After-You-Get-This-You'll-Drop-Dead award. It sure put the whammy on poor Mr. Altman last year. Or maybe they did give it out and I just fell asleep?
Jennifer Hudson half nipple clearly visible during the Dreamgirls belting match. I didn't vote for her on American Idol and I wouldn't vote for her now. Belting is fine – in its place. Most songs are better when they are sung, however.
Good God, Peter O'Toole is old. I remember the time Bibbit and I got dressed up in burnooses and stood in front of the Northpoint Theater for hours so we could be first in line to buy tickets for a Lawrence of Arabia revival. (Aqaba! Aqaba!) Maybe it is a good thing that Bibbit and I fell out of touch (though her loss is one of those secret wounds in my soul.) Wherever she is today, she was crying last night.
All in all, show was good for my ego. At almost fifty-five, I look a lot better than most of the similarly-aged glammed up specimens in the audience – always excepting Helen Mirren, of course, who looks just amazing. Maybe I should let my hair go white…
In other news, I fell into a deep, irremediable depression around noon yesterday.
Maybe it was the rain. The Little Store'd had such a good weekend up till then! But nobody goes out into the rain.
Maybe it was the sight of Bozo scuttling around with his it's-a-keyboard-but-I'm-pretending-it's-an-electric-guitar between showers, trying to wring out a buck. Bozo has fallen upon hard times since the beauty queen absconded. It turns out that nobody really wanted to buy Bozo's CD's. They merely wanted to ogle Bozo's tits, let themselves be enveloped in warm waves of Anaconda Insta-Friendship. For that, they were willing to pony up cash.
Bozo has fallen upon hard times. "He's having a hard time making the rent," Mitch the face painter told me.
"He should seriously consider hiring a girl to do the pitch work," I told Mitch.
He's got his oldest son Bozo Jr. filling in for Anaconda, selling the CD's. Bozo Jr. is a very nice young man but he looks like an axe murderer. Nobody's gonna buy smooth jazz to light up the moments of their lives from Bozo Jr.
Or maybe it was looking at all those old photographs. I know for a fact that I was pret-ty darn miserable around the time I had Max. But look at those photographs! I look so… happy! Maybe I was happy! Maybe I'm misremembering the past, maybe Bill and I had a wonderful marriage, maybe Jim Carrey kidnapped me at gunpoint and then ran me through the super secret Happy Memory Jumbletron to destroy those recollections of a sunshinier day!
The depression took a peculiar form: I ached inside. I felt lonely.
This was odd since I spent the majority of the day on the phone.
First with Marybeth whose aunt had just died. Said aunt's middle-aged offspring had spent their mother's last conscious moments stripping her nursing home room of all valuables and wrestling the rings from her fingers. (I kid you not!) Marybeth and I spent a companionable half hour speculating what life form said offspring would be reincarnated as.
Then with Annie who called to discuss Britney Spears' deteriorating mental condition, Stew's upcoming dental work and the most recent escalation of the Alicia/Uncle Rik blood feud. Forty-five minutes.
Finally with Diana whose photo book is coming out in six weeks and wants me to do a marketing plan. (Which I am happy to do – I love Diana.) That ate up an hour.
I teetered home in a most fragmented psychic state. Checked in with Robin who'd spent the rainy day doing hours of homework and watching the Law & Order SVU marathon on the USA Network.
"And do you know what my favorite episode was, Mom? It was the one where the 12 year old kid was accused of being the murderer – except it wasn't the 12-year old kid, it was the 12 year old kid's fraternal twin brother who wasn't his brother anymore because they turned him into a girl when they botched cutting off his foreskin and why did you have me circumcised anyway?"
"Uh – I really don't remember, honey," I said weakly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. And anyway, I covered all angles, didn't I? That's why I named you Robin! Works for a boy or a girl! See? Mommy's always thinking ahead!"
