Some thoughts from today's most popular guy

"The Oscar goes to-"

This phrase will be uttered again and again tonight and that little pause before the envelope is opened will be full of tension and a four- or five- or ten-way split screen of actors doing their best to act like they don't care, don't need it, fully love everyone in their category, or in the case of many women, like they're not about to pass out from hunger while simultaneously worrying if their hair is holding its curl and their tits are holding their perk. But does anyone ever stop to consider the tension and AGONY we, the Oscar statuettes experience? No. Absolutely not.

Being an Oscar statue, sure, it's a glamorous life, but the most glamorous part really happens on one night. Then, after that, there's a far better chance of oblivion and dust-gathering on a bookshelf than you might think. At least the Olympic gold medals get to go to middle school gymnasiums or on the front of Wheaties boxes, but we Oscars are made for one night of glam, and are then left to the whim or mania of whomever might happen to take us home.
The pressure is awful. We're the mail order brides of the entertainment industry! No choice in the rest of our lives, and there's just as much chance will be used to prop up someone's encyclopedia of French film collection as there is we'll be painted green and given any number of undignified appendages by Hollywood eccentrics (read: drug addicts). The last place an Oscar wants to end up is coked up and sunk at the bottom of someone's Oscar celebration pool party in the Hollywood hills. We're heavy, remember. By the time Consuela finds us on Tuesday, we'll be halfway hellbent on mildewing, and given about as much attention as one of the other silver candlesticks or sex toys that our owner has demanded she polish. The rich. The famous. The praised. Gag me.

Which they do!!!!
When you're kiln-molded to have no discernibly functioning lips, do you think anyone wants to hear what you have to say, or if you think Avatar was some derivative morality play, or if you'd rather be melted down for use in the Franklin Mint collectible coin series for purchase by some old lady in South Dakota than go home with Tarantino? Have you seen him when he's "just being himself?" Come on. Yes, I would delight in the chance to be held in Colin Firth's gentlemanly arms, but will I get the chance? Probably not. Much better chance of going home with some weirdo named Eveleengela who finally earned the recognition she deserves for achievement in costuming for her work in some foreign film no one saw. Great. A lifetime of wearing tiny, couture outfits for the amusement of her dinner party guests. I'd love to be a living doll. Sure, that's why I've been working out so much for this physique.

Really. Turn the cameras around, Ryan Seacrest. Great! Eva Mendes looks stunning again? Wow, shocker. Has she DONE ANYTHING OF ARTISTIC MERIT aside from looking orgasmically satisfied in a shampoo commercial lately? Come on. Why is she even here?!? You wanna talk hot bodies? Turn the cameras toward gold. They love us. Do you know how many times I've been described as "statuesque" in my day? Often. Let's just say often. Probably as much as you get compared to Dick Clark. But does anyone give a damn? No. Just some sweaty palms clutching my rock-hard, gilded ass and pumping me above their head like I'm the whistle on their choo-choo train. Guess what? The view from up here? I can see down your dress. Looks like you're giving yourself a little boost in the boobs, huh? Tape much?
You can't tape solid gold. There's nothing to hide.

There's always the tiny hope of going home with a French ingenue and living out your days overlooking the tower from the wide-open perch on her table near the window. There's the lottery-stats hope of going home with Meryl. But most often it's either a spot next to the Yoda gumball machine of the technical merit geeks, or under a hot spotlight next to some other lesser industry awards in the office of someone who spends most of his day on the phone using the F word. Le Sigh. What can I do about it? A life of glamor is, after all, a thing of beauty. There's always a chance to go home with the animators. They seem fun. As long as it's not a writer. Anything but a writer. Gawd! I'd rather be the beer-laden, frootloop soaked, baby-butt-hugged bowl of the Stanley Cup than go home with a writer. Insufferable. Mostly the sobbing. And especially the singing.

Wish me luck tonight. The envelope? Please.