And the Oscar goes to...
It’s not everyday that you’re nominated for an Academy Award. Technically, it’s once a year, but after you’ve won a few of them, it becomes as painless as a series of Botox shots. This year is no different. The pricks are painless by now.
With Orlando Pita and Pat McGrath doing my hair and makeup (those hi-def TVs are evil), I know that I’ll photograph well from the neck up. From the neck down, I have my tuxedo, just flown in from Italy. After a series of fittings, it should fit me like an extra large Trojan.
The suit looks amazing: lightweight, Italian wool in black. Beautiful cut and exceptional finishing. White shirt and black bowtie. Classic.
A stretch limo takes me to the Kodak Theatre. No hybrid shit. This is the fuckin’ Oscars. If I want to pollute the earth one day of the year, it’s going to be today. I’ll drive a Toyota when I need to go to the grocery store, or my drug dealer in the Valley.
As it stops at the entrance, I exit the car and am escorted towards the tent where my pockets are verified for bombs (unless you count the last John Travolta movie, you’re not going to find any on me). I’m through the curtains and onto the red carpet.
At the start of the carpet, there are photographers with telescopic lenses, calling out my name. I pose for a few, with a smouldering look. George Pimentel, a Canadian photographer, yells, “Yo, T!” I go up to him and give him a hug, much to the chagrin of the other photographers and my handler.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her, the one who made Clint Eastwood cry: Joan Rivers. She’s probably going to say something terrible to me behind my back tomorrow when she disses the way I’m dressed. Fuck, she’s such a cun-.
“Joan!” I say as I extend my arm towards her.
“Steven! Steven, come here,” she says, her clawlike hand reaching out. One more facelift, and the woman can see through the side of her head. “So, you’re nominated for The Departed Letters of the Sunshine Queen of Babel,” she looks down at her papers. “What? What was that? Melissa, Melissa, can you hear me? MELISSA!”
Before allowing this trainwreck to go any further, I tell her what she really wants to hear: “Valentino for the suit, Chopard for the diamonds.” I point to the knuckle-duster, bracelet and watch worth almost $2 million so I don’t have to look at her face.
After escaping her death-grip (probably trying to capture the essence of my youth), I catch up with a few friends. There’s Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett, two women who I’m currently working with. George Clooney tells me he’s jealous that I’m almost 20 years younger than him and I tell him not to worry, I’ve still got my four Oscars to compensate for the fact that I’ve been People’s Sexiest Man Alive once, to his two times. We’re meeting for brunch with Brad, Angie and the kids on the weekend.
As I move along the carpet, I answer the same series of questions from ET, AH, Extra, and every foreign correspondent for international news agencies. You can practically cut-and-paste them by the time I get to the end.
By the time I’m inside, I’m quickly seated since the show is about to begin. I’m seated behind Nicole Kidman and her country singer husband. Part of me wants to run my fingers through her hair, and the other part of me wants to wash Keith Urban’s oily locks.
Ooh, there’s Helen Mirren. She’s so hot. I want to fuck her. Not with her husband around, though. He looks like he keeps a series of shotguns in the house. I wave from a distance and mouth the words, I want you. She's a dirty, dirty girl.
On with the show...
Even with Ellen Degeneres hosting, it begins to bore me after the first hour. There are too many awards, and too much clapping. I should’ve brought hand cream instead of a power bar and a flask filled with 20-year-old Scotch, strapped to my leg.
If it wasn’t for the possibility of seeing Jennifer Hudson clobber Beyoncé with her Oscar, I would’ve fallen asleep long ago.
Finally, it’s time for my award. It’s the second last one of the night and my leg is numb. Note to self: Scotch and power bars don’t mix well.
Meryl Streep walks up to the centre of the stage. She looks like she came from an Amish funeral. She follows the script, but it falls flat. She must’ve had a couple of drinks backstage, and I think I see her wobble a bit from behind Nicole’s enormous, red bow.
My name is announced amongst the four other nominated individuals. Meryl takes forever. I want to shoot her on the spot for making me wait all this time in my seat without taking a pee break.
“And the Oscar for best direction of a foreign scripted, photographed, sound- mixed, art directed, costumed and scored film goes to…”
With Orlando Pita and Pat McGrath doing my hair and makeup (those hi-def TVs are evil), I know that I’ll photograph well from the neck up. From the neck down, I have my tuxedo, just flown in from Italy. After a series of fittings, it should fit me like an extra large Trojan.
The suit looks amazing: lightweight, Italian wool in black. Beautiful cut and exceptional finishing. White shirt and black bowtie. Classic.
A stretch limo takes me to the Kodak Theatre. No hybrid shit. This is the fuckin’ Oscars. If I want to pollute the earth one day of the year, it’s going to be today. I’ll drive a Toyota when I need to go to the grocery store, or my drug dealer in the Valley.
As it stops at the entrance, I exit the car and am escorted towards the tent where my pockets are verified for bombs (unless you count the last John Travolta movie, you’re not going to find any on me). I’m through the curtains and onto the red carpet.
At the start of the carpet, there are photographers with telescopic lenses, calling out my name. I pose for a few, with a smouldering look. George Pimentel, a Canadian photographer, yells, “Yo, T!” I go up to him and give him a hug, much to the chagrin of the other photographers and my handler.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her, the one who made Clint Eastwood cry: Joan Rivers. She’s probably going to say something terrible to me behind my back tomorrow when she disses the way I’m dressed. Fuck, she’s such a cun-.
“Joan!” I say as I extend my arm towards her.
“Steven! Steven, come here,” she says, her clawlike hand reaching out. One more facelift, and the woman can see through the side of her head. “So, you’re nominated for The Departed Letters of the Sunshine Queen of Babel,” she looks down at her papers. “What? What was that? Melissa, Melissa, can you hear me? MELISSA!”
Before allowing this trainwreck to go any further, I tell her what she really wants to hear: “Valentino for the suit, Chopard for the diamonds.” I point to the knuckle-duster, bracelet and watch worth almost $2 million so I don’t have to look at her face.
After escaping her death-grip (probably trying to capture the essence of my youth), I catch up with a few friends. There’s Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett, two women who I’m currently working with. George Clooney tells me he’s jealous that I’m almost 20 years younger than him and I tell him not to worry, I’ve still got my four Oscars to compensate for the fact that I’ve been People’s Sexiest Man Alive once, to his two times. We’re meeting for brunch with Brad, Angie and the kids on the weekend.
As I move along the carpet, I answer the same series of questions from ET, AH, Extra, and every foreign correspondent for international news agencies. You can practically cut-and-paste them by the time I get to the end.
By the time I’m inside, I’m quickly seated since the show is about to begin. I’m seated behind Nicole Kidman and her country singer husband. Part of me wants to run my fingers through her hair, and the other part of me wants to wash Keith Urban’s oily locks.
Ooh, there’s Helen Mirren. She’s so hot. I want to fuck her. Not with her husband around, though. He looks like he keeps a series of shotguns in the house. I wave from a distance and mouth the words, I want you. She's a dirty, dirty girl.
On with the show...
Even with Ellen Degeneres hosting, it begins to bore me after the first hour. There are too many awards, and too much clapping. I should’ve brought hand cream instead of a power bar and a flask filled with 20-year-old Scotch, strapped to my leg.
If it wasn’t for the possibility of seeing Jennifer Hudson clobber Beyoncé with her Oscar, I would’ve fallen asleep long ago.
Finally, it’s time for my award. It’s the second last one of the night and my leg is numb. Note to self: Scotch and power bars don’t mix well.
Meryl Streep walks up to the centre of the stage. She looks like she came from an Amish funeral. She follows the script, but it falls flat. She must’ve had a couple of drinks backstage, and I think I see her wobble a bit from behind Nicole’s enormous, red bow.
My name is announced amongst the four other nominated individuals. Meryl takes forever. I want to shoot her on the spot for making me wait all this time in my seat without taking a pee break.
“And the Oscar for best direction of a foreign scripted, photographed, sound- mixed, art directed, costumed and scored film goes to…”
Authored by S at 12:00 am
10 Comments:
O the humanity! O the suspense!
Your dress looked great but I must say you'd have looked better in Penelope's color.
snazzy
You were definitely on my Best Dressed List. I just wonder, do you think J. Hud got drunk and threw Beyonce in a pool later on in the night?
It's just so unfortunate that I stole your Oscar from you. Them's the breaks, better luck next year!
Oh and for Helen, all I can say is what a great woman she is and her bedroom manners are second to none.
Nice post title ... great minds think alike (and while you wrote yours first, I wrote mine before i read yours, so it's complete coincidence).
i loved Meryl. Not when she was presenting but that Devil Wears Prada moment was priceless.
I want to hear about the after party!
and then did you wake up?
Great piece of fiction...and I only say that since George Pimentel has never shot the Oscar carpet, just the after parties.
Post a Comment
<< Home