Poor Chris Rock and Robin Williams did the best they could with their watered down remarks last night at the Academy Awards. Seems a shame this climate of censorship has dampened what such brilliant comedians are free to say.
They ought to host next year's Oscars on HBO or Showtime so it's not so sterilized.
I wonder how long it'll take before people get tired of this Bush-inspired Leave It To Beaver mentality we are forced to endure on network TV?
I attended a lesbian Oscar party last night, where I noticed ponchos seem to have come back into style. Like leather pants, they should be restricted to those who wear size 10 or less. Chances are, if your poncho could serve double duty as a slipcover for an overstuffed chair, it's too big to be wearing.
They had a betting pool last night, where for $5 you could buy a ballot and select who you thought would win each major category- winner take all.
My sister was running the pool, and for the 12th consecutive year, managed to win it all. I'll just file that under, "when will I ever learn."
Seemed to me, the Oscars were never more dull, but the party was fun.
I rushed home afterwards to watch The L Word, but I was so sapped from being around all those people, I hardly remember a thing about it. Fortunately, Showtime replays it just about all week long, so I may get another shot at it.
Among the guests last night was one lone straight man, who's married to my lover-in-law's law partner. He was adorable, making the best of things by continually grazing at the buffet and making kind comments about everything he was eating. I think he must have eaten 40 miniature cream puffs, because he took on kind of a walrus-meets-chipmunk look toward the end of the evening.
Another thing I noticed was a couple, newly together, who just didn't fit.
One is a slightly introverted, stringently recovering alcoholic control freak, and her new squeeze is a large, loud, poncho wearing, drunken control freak. The drunk was having only bottled water, but I noticed her enviously eyeing like a slavering hound those of us who were free to imbibe.
Watching a world class wino drinking H20 all evening was like watching Lance Armstrong in the stands at the Tour de France.
It's amazing how we women tend to try to reinvent ourselves to please others, not quite realizing that when we deny ourselves our natural inclinations, eventually everyone gets gypped.
In art, they call it "truth to materials," meaning you don't use rough, terra cotta clay to create delicate miniature cameos, or Crayolas to create a sofa sized canvas.
Why a recovering alkie would choose to date an active drunk is beyond my comprehension. And vice versa.
Oh well, better them than me. That's all I'm sayin.'