on a celebratory congregation of people, some one might presume vain

I'm a lucky guy: I live in a town so prosperous as to contain establishments where, in exchange for legal tender, you may sit in a large room and watch television on a very large screen. Combine their proximity with my untold wealth (I'll tell you about it soon) and I'm liable to attend upwards of twenty thousand movies a year. Strange, but I quite enjoy this process.

Every few years the people responsible for "giant television" gather together to present trophies to the finest perpetrators of these hoaxes on reality. The ceremony is called the "Oskars" and it never fails to be a spectacle. The beginning was typical: Oprah Winfrey auctioned off a peasant girl, script-writers were cordoned off so that they could conduct a "lottery" in which the winner was killed in the belief that it would result in a prosperous harvest, Ron Howard transformed into a two-story-tall robot (lasor overkill-one man's opinion) and argued the merits of the banjo. But after the predictable intro no one could have predicted the extent to which the evening was scripted. Jon Stewart is swell, and near the beginning of a ceremony wherein some of the industry's most powerful folks would present each other with trophies, he said, get this, "Let's all just take a moment to congratulate ourselves." I applaud his wit, unless it's turns out he was being sincere, in which cause I will write a series of harrassing letters bemoaning his obliviousness. Some people just don't get it.

Some people gamble on "Oskar results". I abhor this process, and the people who would bandy money about as if it was a child to be won in a game of blackjack. But if I had gambled on the evening's winners I'd be a moderately more wealthy man: I correctly predicted the winner of every category, though my ballot did take the over on four as it concerns streakers-perhaps a penality would have been leveled.

"No Country for Old Men", or as I hilariously call it: "Country for Mean Men", was extremely enjoyable for me to watch. And though any splatter-graph detailing my history with Tommy Lee Jones would be shotgunned full of dots representing our disputes over the use of his middle name, the entire cast was kissable (if one is of the opinion that an outstanding performance in a movie renders the performer kissable). Daniel Day Lewis's performance as man named Daniel was incredible, so much so that I've pierced by ears, and then found myself mortified at the destruction I'd inflicted on my body. When a winnebago's worth of priests had finally talked me back from the brink of total disregard for convention (How many holes in a body toes it take to send one over the edge into total twinkie-and-couch-cushion oblivion? Answer: 4.) they asked me why I was moaning so loudly. I wasn't able to answer as I still am unable to choke back the hell-hot releases of grief, but I will now reveal the reason my computer is slick with tears: the performance of the old man who asks if he can adopt the young man. I'd like to place a silk hanky against the sad springs on that guy's face. "Hey, let's go get a milkshake." He'd smile and we'd talk about my favorite things. He'd become increasingly uncomfortable with my unwavering stare. I'd talk around his excuses for leaving. When the old-timey milkshake shack closed I'd insist that I drive, "Those dying eyes can't be much good for seeing," I'd smile. Gently insisting that his directions were wrong, I'd take a long time taking him to his house. "We have to do this again sometime," I'd say. He'd leave the car and walk to his door, risking and instantly regretting a look back at me and my thick stare and over-stretched smile. He'd struggle to insert the proper key and I'd call out an offer of my assistance. "No, got it. Good night," he stammer. And still he'd struggle with his keys, the door finally clicking open just as I'm a step away from obtaining his porch, "I could come in," I'd say. It's pretty obvious that he pretends not to hear or see me as he closes the door.


Final words: Ron Howard, igloo, and mortified