What the Oscars Mean To Me

I will not join an Oscar pool. I will lose and I hate to watch my money go bye-bye. I find that people tend to get self-righteous when analyzing who (whom?) they think will win and why. And then if they are right, watch out, you’re in for more self-righteousness. “Oh, you thought Reese would win? Ah, no. That’s not how the Academy thinks….” And on and on.

Today, as I drove home after a great morning of spiritual awakenings, I planned to get home around 1pm to start writing a short story for this Friday’s show. Today, being my only day off. Well, wouldn’t you know it! Hssss, thwap, thwap. My tire has a huge spike in it. When the guy at Just Tires saw it, I felt like I was in a sci-fi movie and we were staring at Big Foot’s paw-print. “Well, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like this. It ain’t human. And it ain’t a regular nail. Some sort of……..spike or somethin’.”

But wait, before you think I live some charmed life and assume that getting to Just Tires was easy. Oh no. First my car hissed and thwapped down Santa Monica Blvd. I had taken Coldwater Canyon home from the valley, because I live two blocks from where the Oscars are (we’ll get to that in a minute) and I wasn’t about to do the Cahuenga pass or the 101 to Hollywood. I pull into a WeHo gas station and ask the people there if they hear the hissing in my tire, and might they jack up my car to see if there is a nail? Or if they’d bend down and watch me drive slowly back and forth to reveal whatever the hell is in my tire. You see, I’m woman. Hear me roar? And as a woman, you do not tell the guy at the gas station how to do his job. First he had to scare me by telling me it was my muffler and a “pipe was loose somewhere” (very technical.) I shook my head at each pass. Nope. Nope. Just had my 15,000 mile tune-up five days ago. Nope. Nope. Finally? He says, “Miss, I think you have something in your tire.” Of course I did. But at least now that his masculinity is in tact, he can help me. But he can’t. Because it’s not a patch job. I have a claw in my tire. So I’m off to Just Tires. A mere 8 blocks away. Or is it?

Nope! It’s a 20 minute drive. Why, twenty minutes? Well, every road was blocked off leading there because of the Oscar after parties. Of course! The Oscars is not enough of a party. Your life as an actor is not enough of a party. Let’s party again! So I get to Just Tires moments before I’m driving on the metal thing like someone in a high-speed chase, giving off sparks. And I sit for an hour and $80 later, my car is fixed. Wheee! Off to the grocery store. Only one hour behind schedule. Or am I?

Nope. Now I’m more behind schedule because it took me an hour, an hour to get home from Trader Joe’s which is two miles from my house. My very own street was blocked off due to the Oscars. I guess my street has become a surveillance area for cops.

Phew. Now I’m home. I’m unloading groceries from my car and my conspiracy theory creepy building-mate, lady says to me. “Psst. Come here. I have to show you something.” Now, I’m holding two heavy Trader Joe’s bags. And I have to walk in a direction away from where I’m going to meet her by the dumpster and see what she has cooking? No. I’m not. I can’t tolerate anyone who can’t just start a conversation with exactly what’s on their mind, someone who has to preface it with something dramatic, “Want to see something scary?” “Come with me?” or the worst, “Hey, what are doing right now?” These people are crazy and boundaries must be set.

So she says to me, “You have a political bumper-sticker on your car. You’re one of the ones they watch.” She points to a big, black police Hummer parked outside of our complex. I say, “I think they are security for the Oscars. It’s two blocks away.” She says, “No. They’re watching us.”

She points to the three helicopters that are hovering over our building. “And what the hell do they think they’re doing?” I said, “That’s the channel 7 newsteam. It’s red carpet time. We live 2 blocks from the Oscars.” In the park next to our apartment, a group called Food On Foot passes out snacks to the homeless and in return the homeless clean up the neighborhood and they try to find work and etc. That happens every Sunday. She says to me, “Those copters are counting the homeless people. They’re watching us.” Again, I think they are watching George Clooney, 2 blocks away. She says to me, “They’re coutin’ ’em. So they know how many to get rid of. And there are over 1,000 people in wheelchairs in Los Angeles.” Now, who’s counting? Also when I have heavy bags in my arms, don’t throw an out-of-nowhere-statistic at me, I can’t catch it.

Now I’m safely inside. And must get on with the writing. I’m told that as a Daily Show fan I have to watch the Oscars to see how Jon Stewart does. Perhaps. Or I could just watch the Daily Show as a fan of that. When I see any of these bitches at “Dork Days” maybe I’ll reconsider watching them win their gold.


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