Yes, tonight Hollywood celebrates itself in the year's biggest pageant of cinematic self-absorption. The dresses, the tuxedos, the jewelry, the hairdos. The limos and red carpet. And, of course, the burning question on everyone's mind: "Who are you wearing?"
I recognize the supreme shallowness of the Oscars. I know that, really, who wins Best Supporting Actor or Best Actress isn't going to bring about peace in the Middle East. I also know that, tomorrow morning, when the Oscar parties on the West Coast are winding down and all the stars are stumbling back to their hotel rooms, my life will be the same. Same job. Same money problems. Same worries.
Yet, for one night, I can be selfish and catty and vapid. I can imagine my life revolves around whether Lincoln or Argo wins Best Picture. I will be at an Oscar party. There will be cheese and crackers and rotelle dip. I will compete against my siblings and parents and children and in-laws for the honor of taking home a mock-Oscar statuette. It will be cut-throat. We will tease and taunt and humiliate each other. It's one of my favorite nights of the year.
Yes, the Saint Marty clan takes its Oscars seriously.
P.S. Stay tuned for the next installment of Confessions.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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