And the Oscar goes to…


Oh! The Oscars. Glamour! Heartache! Pizza! Speechifying, Twitter take-downs, cynics, critics! Commentary on everyone’s commentary!

Brangelina, and U2! Liza Minnelli, fer cryin’ out loud!

And poor, poor John Travolta.

I love awards ceremonies. Truly I do. I am not in the bored, over-it camp. In fact, I want to attend next year! (Mostly so I can become Tina Fey’s new bestie. I want to hang out with Jimmy and Amy and Justin, and be in their fabulous fun times club.)

And it could happen! I mean, despite my utter lack of credentials and my focus on making introspective indie music, I could get cast in a big Hollywood film that would shoot right away, get nominated, and propel me to A-lister status by February 2015, right? Of course.

But if for some bizarre reason that doesn’t transpire, then next year I’m getting about 400 yards of chiffon, and the most treacherous heels I can find, and the lipstick of the season (Periwinkle, or Pixie Dixie) and am gonna put together one heckuva getup. Talk about custom couture! It’ll be *eye-popping*.

I’m gonna open the bubbly about 5pm, and practice falling over traffic cones and tripping up the steps to accept my award. When the show starts I will twirl and swirl and post selfies to Instagram (remind me to open an account before then) and rile up feuds among my various personalities, and then — ooh!– edit the acceptance speeches after they’ve broadcast, and then live-blog re-give them, as they should have been.

You can join in the fun if you like. Bring tulle or tweed or your fabric of choice.

Now, doesn’t that sound like more fun than half-watching doing dishes?

Of course it does. It will be *magical*.


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