These words come from a friend of mine, a rational and intelligent man who can imagine no greater joy in life than being placed in a close-fitting leather body bag, his head in a vise, while a fellow SM diehard flogs him with a cat-o'-nine-tails. Me, I'm an old-fashioned guy who takes pleasure in pleasure, and my friend's taste for pain remains largely a mystery to me. Until I consider the Oscars.
For the entirety of my adult life, I have willingly--enthusiastically, passionately--subjected myself to the cumulatively crushing pain of the Oscar broadcast. In its own glitzy way, my viewing of the televised Oscar ceremony is my personal SM ritual, and, in keeping with my friend's opening maxim, I shall hereby attempt to draw knowledge and instruction from this year's Oscar parade of pain.
From host Steve Martin, I learned that merely setting foot on an Oscar stage immediately decreases a person's funniness quotient by 30 to 40 percent.
From Jennifer Lopez, I learned that the Hollywood raisin-smuggling ring is still in full operation. (It's a nipple thing--you wouldn't understand.)
From Javier Bardem, I learned exactly what the bastard love child of Robert Downey Jr. and Brendan Fraser would look like.
From Juliette Binoche, I learned that an Academy Award-winning, internationally renowned actress can be dressed by the world's finest designers and still end up looking like she just got raped in a stairwell.
From the Pepsi commercials, I learned that Bob Dole's dog has a boner for Britney Spears.
From the churning that appeared in my stomach every time her smug-ass face flashed on the screen, I learned that I have somehow come to hate, truly hate, Dame Judi Dench.
From the duet with Randy Newman, I learned that former Bangle Susannah Hoffs is still alive (although, following her nerve-wracked and nerve-wracking performance, she probably wishes otherwise).
From Julia Roberts, I learned that there are few things more pleasant to behold than a happy pretty lady (even if she is babbling like she accidentally flushed her lithium).
From Steven Soderbergh, I learned that talented, hard-working dorks sometimes win (even if it's for artistically advanced, politically reactionary crap like Traffic).
And from the shocking triumph of best supporting actress Marcia Gay Harden, I learned that the stultifyingly boring old Academy is still capable of surprising me once in a while.
See you next year.
