My Own Extraordinary Oscar Party

Come on, admit it: You watched the Academy Awards last night, or at least part of it. Even though I have gone to a movie theater only once this year, like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame, I couldn't help myself. Last night, with nothing pressing to do and with a nagging backache and admittedly jaundiced eye, I watched the whole thing from my living room couch. My husband was in the room but was busy working, looking up sometimes but not often enough to offer any stinging barbs or meaningful criticism. Soon enough I wondered, is this the Strapless Evening Gown Awards? Is this the Anne Hathaway Show, and who is that smirking guy standing next to her? In fact, who are most of those people? Where are the likes of Meryl Streep and Diane Keaton, De Niro and Denzel, not to mention a Paul Newman or a Judy Garland, or even a Liza Minelli for that matter?

When I was a kid, watching the Academy Awards show was a very big deal. My parents let me stay up late, not all the way to the Best Picture but almost. It was exciting. Bob Hope was always the host and he always cracked me up with his corny jokes. When I was a teenager, I watched the show with my girlfriends, mainly to gawk at all the male movie stars we had crushes on. In my twenties, I attended or sometimes even hosted "Oscar parties" where the attendees would all get stoned and eat great food and trash the tacky production numbers and make fun of the outlandish dresses and inane acceptance speeches. Naturally, we applauded Marlon Brando's rejection of the award because of something to do with our government's treatment of native Americans but I'm not sure what.

During the years since I have only vaguely been aware of who was hosting the show and would tune in to see Steve Martin or Billy Crystal, watching for a few minutes until I got the drift that their shtick was scripted by a team of Hollywood chimps. If a special movie was up for an award, I would turn it on at the end to see if it won. (Helen Mirren! The Queen!)

As far as I was concerned, last night's show was remarkable for two things: First, Kirk Douglas is still alive, sort of. Who knew? And second, according to the constant commercials which interrupted the proceedings, allowing Anne to change into yet another outfit, drinking Diet Coke, which I happen to do every so often, doesn't just make you extraordinary, it makes you stay extraordinary, inferring that you already are. Again, who knew?