Oscar castrates himself

March 6, 2006 | Just when you thought it couldn't possibly get any more wrist-slashingly boring, the boringness collapsed in on itself and became a deadly howling void of terrible sucking from which the light of no star could escape. These Oscars were so hideously uptight, they got pulled down a worm-hole and traveled light-years, on and on, forever, until they finally ended up in the darkest, airless regions of some fat, ultraconservative's welded-on undershorts. Somehow, the roaring vacuum of these Oscars even killed the chi of the Golden Boy, our very own Jon Stewart. He began apologizing within 20 minutes, once he realized he'd never get his ankles out of the anaconda.

How ... HOW did Jon Stewart suck so hard?

I think somebody MADE him suck. I think there was some serious Hollywood penitentiary shower-shanghai going down. Somebody stuck Jon Stewart in the tent with Oscar and made him commit unnatural acts of sucking. I don't want to name names, but I think it was probably J.C. Penney himself.

Walk it off, Jon. Sasha Cohen showed us that you can fall on your ass and still lose with dignity. It's just not America's year.

A few things were surprising: We thought this was going to be the Gay Oscars. Instead it was the "Hey, you fearfully ignorant red-state hick-weeds: Hollywood is America's social conscience and history proves that we've always been smarter than you" Oscars. Oscar was being defensive, because Hollywood is tired of being called dirty names by the no-necked monsters hanging around the White House bowling alley.

However.

I am beginning to think that the Oscars are doing for Hollywood what the Gap and Banana Republic did for American fashion, for a while -- which was to lock the whole chaotic scene into a flavorless, oatmeal-colored safety zone. Once a decision is made to be tasteful and risk-free, all spark, soul, variety, sleaze, spontaneity and fun go right out the window.

I had this list of awards I was sure I was going to be able to hand out from my upside-down perch in my bat-cave, and was disappointed to not be able to use them:

Shiniest, Pinkest Face-lift: Hell, nobody had a really shitty, pneumatic one where the skin is all raw and as lineless as an uncooked chicken breast. Everyone on camera was fairly natural-looking. Snore.

Moment Jon Stewart Looked Most Manic-Depressive: I thought there would just be one or two, but you could see his "my material and I are tanking" realization dawning within the first 20 seconds. He hopefully tried to airlift the thing for a while, but after the second commercial break his mood just plummeted unchecked, until he finally became bravely and professionally glum, soldiering forward with all the glee of a rescue worker who continues to try to relieve suffering when he secretly knows that All Is Doomed.

Most Rambling, Self-Indulgent, Ungrateful Twit (aka the James Cameron Award): Again, nobody was really outstanding in this category. The jackbooted Oscar brass must have sent out a DMV-style "Rules of Tasteful Oscar Participation" etiquette guide, and threatened bold penalties for those who went astray. This helpfully eliminated most human error from the evening, and totally ruined everything.

Star Most Insouciantly Acting as if This Event Were Totally Unimportant in the Scheme of Things: Again, what was with all the infuriatingly respectful, middle-of-the-road, nondrunken behavior? Did they breathalyze all the celebs before they let them in the Kodak auditorium?

Camille Paglia asked the right question: Are there no capital-N Narcissists left in Hollywood? No wonder box-office receipts are so grim. No obnoxiously starlike stars are allowed on campus anymore. I guess the honchos now regard such egocentricity as too problematic to deal with. To be a Hollywood success these days, you have to be reasonable and polite. It really makes me pine for notorious tyrants like Vincent Gallo and Faye Dunaway -- sure, they're impossible, tantrum-throwing wack jobs ... that's the same mental illness that makes them preternaturally fun to watch.

Best and/or Worst Use of Double-Sided Nipple Tape: This year, the Academy Awards proclaimed that they were embracing a "Return to Glamour" -- but there were no nipples to contend with for the second year in a row. There wasn't even a particularly plunging neckline in sight -- just ill-fitting, strapless, ace-bandage-type '50s ball gowns. Yet another edict from the brass, I'm sure, which seems to be nostalgically yearning for nice, decent girls like Debbie Boone. Look for gloves and headscarves next year, and some kind of rule against indecent ankle exposure.

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