During spring break of 2010, my friend the Leo and I were in my father’s Studio City home, watching Precious on an Academy Award screener. This, if you don’t know, is the free swag you get for being an Oscar judge, which some of my father’s friends are. I was recovering from a nasty case of food poisoning (possibly caused by my step-mother’s cooking, possibly caused by airport food), and my immune system was weak. Their home, which once had mold issues and still felt quite toxic, was giving me a cough that made me sound like Scarlett Johansson and therefore terribly annoying.
Now, while this was one of the worst spring breaks of my life, I did get to enjoy a number of free DVD screeners. A Single Man, A Serious Man, Precious, An Education, Fantastic Mr. Fox, and probably others I’m forgetting (or trying to forget, like 500 Days of Summer). The Leo and I would settle down on the couch, wrapped in blankets, as I tried not to die, watching movies endlessly.
Later my father said to me, “Did you see what Gabby Sidibe wore to the Oscars? Who do you think made her dress? NASA?”
We made no reply. After all, I don’t watch the Oscars, as a general rule. I don’t care about the standard gowns stylists choose for celebrities, nor do I care about who the “best” actor or gaffer is or whatever.
For future reference, this is what NASA makes:
This is what a human being is:
There was my father, a veritable D-List (if not lower) member of the community, making a cruel comment about Gabby Sidibe, when he has the gall to stuff his body into a navy blue velvet blazer to attend the theatre. After my last trip to Los Angeles, I started calling him “Roman Castevet” from Rosemary’s Baby for his winning style and questionable ethics:
This is the thing, folks. Anyone with enough credits on imdb.com can qualify to judge the Oscars. Like James Franco, they are no better than you, though they might be richer or more stoned than you. And that’s okay. Just don’t ask me what I thought about 1.) Natalie Portman 2.) Colin Firth or 3.) the politics of the Oscars. Like my relationship with Los Angeles and Hollywood, in general, I pretty much don’t care about giving awards to people who have lemons growing from their trees.
Lemons, people. Have you been to Los Angeles? Everyone’s either really poor or they have their own lemon trees. There’s nothing in between.
Stay tuned for the next installment in which I regale you with the time I spotted an actor from 500 Days of Summer while eating Pinkberry and hating my life.