”So. What did you think of the Oscars?”
I knew her face. But it had been a couple of months since I last saw her. And my mind was scanning face files faster than a Homeland Security computer.
”What is her name? Donna? No. Diane? No. Denise. It must be Denice.”
”But what is she saying about Oscar? The grouch? Felix Unger’s roommate? The first name of a famous wiener?”
Then she let the gato out of the bolsa. “Isn’t it great that the Academy can be open enough to recognize a creative French film?”
Ah, yes. I guess Sunday night was the entertainment conglomerate’s night of self-delusional awards. And I missed it.
”Missed” is exactly the wrong word. I did not see it. Nor did I have any plans to see it.
There are certain American cultural events that once meant something to me. But, down here, they sound like the rituals of tribes in Rwanda.
That transition began before I moved to Melaque. I was once a big Super Bowl fan. My friend, Stan, and I would get together and invest our full attention to the television. Starting with the first Super Bowl (before it inherited its monarchical Roman numerals).
And there was a day when the awards for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences were a true event. In high school, we would wrap up our neighborhood baseball game to watch Bob Hope host what was little more than an opportunity to see snippets of films we would never see at the Victory theater.
But somewhere along the line, all of that began to fade. Probably when I exiled television from my home about twenty years ago. It is difficult to invite Elizabeth Taylor and the Green Bay Packers into your living room without an appropriate medium.
I suspect there was something else, though. When the Super Bowl commercials became more interesting than the game, I stopped looking around for a game day venue. (This year’s game was played while I was in the air on my way to China. I have not bothered to see who won.)
And when the post-modern subtext of the Oscars lost all of its irony, I stopped attending my friends’ Oscar night parties. The jig was up when the Academy realized the viewers knew that the Academy knew that the show was nothing more than an exercise for Hollywood to pretend it did not make its living off of Porky’s and its piglets. The award show was merely a parody of itself.
By the time I left for Mexico, both cultural icons were a thing of the past for me.
I guess that is what surprised me about Denice’s question. I had not given any thought to The Artist. It would not have played at the Victory theater in Milwaukie. And I am certain it will not show up in Manzanillo unless the producers add some vampires or sorcerers.
And why Denise, who lives here most of the year, would care is a bit astounding to me. Maybe she simply liked seeing the film clips. Just like when we were kids.
I occasionally mumble about the lack of cultural events in Melaque. And I will in the future. But one thing I will not miss is the absurdity of another awards show.
Woody Allen said it best in Annie Hall: “What's with all these awards? They're always giving out awards. Best Fascist Dictator: Adolf Hitler.”
And, true to form, he (Woody, not Adolf) did not show up on Sunday night to claim his Best Writing – Original Screenplay award.
That is my kind of winner.
I knew her face. But it had been a couple of months since I last saw her. And my mind was scanning face files faster than a Homeland Security computer.
”What is her name? Donna? No. Diane? No. Denise. It must be Denice.”
”But what is she saying about Oscar? The grouch? Felix Unger’s roommate? The first name of a famous wiener?”
Then she let the gato out of the bolsa. “Isn’t it great that the Academy can be open enough to recognize a creative French film?”
Ah, yes. I guess Sunday night was the entertainment conglomerate’s night of self-delusional awards. And I missed it.
”Missed” is exactly the wrong word. I did not see it. Nor did I have any plans to see it.
There are certain American cultural events that once meant something to me. But, down here, they sound like the rituals of tribes in Rwanda.
That transition began before I moved to Melaque. I was once a big Super Bowl fan. My friend, Stan, and I would get together and invest our full attention to the television. Starting with the first Super Bowl (before it inherited its monarchical Roman numerals).
And there was a day when the awards for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences were a true event. In high school, we would wrap up our neighborhood baseball game to watch Bob Hope host what was little more than an opportunity to see snippets of films we would never see at the Victory theater.
But somewhere along the line, all of that began to fade. Probably when I exiled television from my home about twenty years ago. It is difficult to invite Elizabeth Taylor and the Green Bay Packers into your living room without an appropriate medium.
I suspect there was something else, though. When the Super Bowl commercials became more interesting than the game, I stopped looking around for a game day venue. (This year’s game was played while I was in the air on my way to China. I have not bothered to see who won.)
And when the post-modern subtext of the Oscars lost all of its irony, I stopped attending my friends’ Oscar night parties. The jig was up when the Academy realized the viewers knew that the Academy knew that the show was nothing more than an exercise for Hollywood to pretend it did not make its living off of Porky’s and its piglets. The award show was merely a parody of itself.
By the time I left for Mexico, both cultural icons were a thing of the past for me.
I guess that is what surprised me about Denice’s question. I had not given any thought to The Artist. It would not have played at the Victory theater in Milwaukie. And I am certain it will not show up in Manzanillo unless the producers add some vampires or sorcerers.
And why Denise, who lives here most of the year, would care is a bit astounding to me. Maybe she simply liked seeing the film clips. Just like when we were kids.
I occasionally mumble about the lack of cultural events in Melaque. And I will in the future. But one thing I will not miss is the absurdity of another awards show.
Woody Allen said it best in Annie Hall: “What's with all these awards? They're always giving out awards. Best Fascist Dictator: Adolf Hitler.”
And, true to form, he (Woody, not Adolf) did not show up on Sunday night to claim his Best Writing – Original Screenplay award.
That is my kind of winner.
