Every year I watch the Academy Awards. I always have. One of my earliest memories is the time the streaker ran through when David Niven was presenting something.
There haven't been any streakers lately, though there are quite a few boobs (literal and figurative) that pop out on the red carpet. It's all part of the hype, I guess. The red carpet, the overdone opening, the inexplicable musical numbers, the death montage, and then some young actress will win Best Actress the first time she bothers to prove she can convey emotion in spite of not being able to change her facial expression because of the botox. Then some old guy will win for a phoning-it-in performance in a moderately good movie because they didn't give him the award years ago when he actually deserved it because they were busy giving some other guy his make-up Oscar.
I've found it's best to watch it drunk. Last spring, the death montage came on two thirds of the way through the program, and it was surprisingly short and the only death that really stood out was Heath Ledger. So I spouted off to The Jesus of Cheese that either they forgot a bunch of people, or this coming year is going to have a lot of old actors dying because they'll be working again after relaxing during the writer's strike/stress=death type rant.
It made perfect sense when I was drunk. Perhaps it was one of those random psychic moments I have. I don't even really remember exactly what I said, except that I predicted a LOT of famous deaths this year.
Now every time someone famous dies, The Jesus of Cheese tells me it's my fault because I predicted it.
I only wish my power of suggestion extended to politics.
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