Your gay Oscar bash is a bore.
First, your environment is all wrong. And by that, I mean I'm starving. I've latched on to an annual party with good food. But I've been to some where it's been like, "Here, fool, I got Triscuits and celery." If you're a decent person, you'll be delivering the cupcakes, ribs, taquitos, milk shakes, Chex mix, chocolate, and booze You also need enough places to sit. The show is about 19 hours long. I demand a spot on a sofa. One not covered in cat hair. If you can't manage that, then don't host.
The rest is about guests. Translation: Your friends who are all "OMG! Dreamgirls!" need to be put in check. Because, seriously, if you give a flying heck about these awards at all, then you're pretty much doomed to an Evening in Lame-O Town. Any half-assedly film-literate person already knows that the Oscars are usually artistically meaningless. Really daring movies rarely get nominated. If they did, then directors like David Cranenberg and Claire Denis would be household names. If you railed about homophobia because that piece of crap Crash won Best Picture over Broke back Mountain, then your party values are out of sync with the Universe of Fun's laws of physics.
Who needs worthy films to win besides the studios that stand to make money from them? No one. Dignified people make boring thank-you speeches. It's better when self-important blowhards win, thank L. Ran Hubbard, and yell shit like "I'm the king of the world.
This is a fact. So understand that it's all meaningless and that Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector is more awesome than the majority of the nominees. This telecast exists to be eviscerated by a carefully curated group of friends who have no agenda but evil. "Fans" of anything should be disinvited.
Other people to discard: compulsively competitive quipmakers, sexually inappropriate drunks, shirt-tucked-in people who won't eat the cupcakes in an abspatting display of body hatred, and gay men who mistake bitchiness for wit, especially the ones who think every woman on camera deserves comments like "What's she wearing?" or "I hear she's a bitch!" or any number of played-out Botox observations. I mean, yes, almost all celebrities dress for shit now and have had their souls and mugs steel-wooled down to a nub by Hollywood, but the fact still remains that the only person who deserves mockery every single time she appears in public is Faith Hill. Finally, be down with the freaks. Do you think Bjork in a kooky dress is bad?
Then we're not friends. Did you hate "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" because you think all hip-hop sounds like that? Then see the above sentence in which I describe our level of friendship. In fact, here's the bottom line: This year you need to invite everyone who enjoyed last year's racist-zombie-car-accident-with-fire number for that mewling Crash song. All right-thinking people know that was the definition of incredible.
P.S. Go, J-Hud!
White is the author of Exile in Guyville and the film critic for Movies.com. Find him at www.imdavewhite.com.
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|Title Annotation:||THE WHITE PARTY|
|Publication:||The Advocate (The national gay & lesbian newsmagazine)|
|Date:||Feb 27, 2007|
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