Golden night lost its luster
We watch the Oscars. The next day chunks of us then pee on the Oscars. Question: So why do we tinkle on them?
Answer: Because those on it are famous, rich, entitled. They got swimming pools, big estates, Birkins — and we don’t.
Please. Those loaner diamonds get yanked off nominees while they’re still in the after-party john.
Designer gowns? Borrowed. Returned so fast that the previous wearer’s fragrance is still on them.
And we watchers? In rumpled PJs stuffing ourselves with leftovers.
But — like Biden praising his son, wife and ventriloquist — the academy’s now outzonked itself. Its newest raison d’être? Variety, inclusion, diversity.
Forget what’s a great movie. Screw ability of a director, writer, actor, designer, choreographer.
Today’s cinema being heavy on stabbing, killing, shooting, decapitating, burning, exploding — who actually still cares about the profession?
Now the academy’s announced it’s into ancestry. Diversity. Maternity. A statuette depends on where your mother gave birth to you.
Next year’s top dog — could be some underdog who could be the pro in the men’s room in Madagascar or Greta Gerwig’s podiatrist’s assistant’s dentist.
For a future statuette you’ll only need a passport. Shove ability. We’re talking ethnicity, background and religious affiliation.
Movies today are written for the ages. The ages between 4 and 12. For those who run the gamut of emotions from A to B. I even go whether I need the sleep or not.
The Oscars — like our politics — have gone astray.
Tomorrow’s any newbie whom many of us never heard of and got discovered in the bush and who could end up getting knighted by Camilla.
Talent. Great idea. Even if we don’t have it in government, why shouldn’t we have it in entertainment?
OK, forgive me. I’m done. I’m now going to lie down and watch some Mickey Rooney rerun.
Luck of the luncheon
Something else to schlep to your attention. A St. Patrick’s Day luncheon. An invitation from the Queens Chamber of Commerce. What could be more exciting? Paper plates with tuna possibly leaking through is such a treat.
And already accepting? Jack Schlossberg. I repeat. Jack Schlossberg. As in the son of Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg.
Paper napkins? Maybe plastic utensils? Ask yourself: Self, why’s Kennedy’s kid Schlossberg schlepping to a St. Pat’s lunch? For the Irish. In Queens. Catered by the local Chamber of Commerce which, as we may guess, missed its Michelin three star.
The hills are alive with the sound of Kennedys running. We already got another namesake who’s at least walking for office.
So this Schlossberg kid’s visit is just to maybe shake a hand? Or is he scratching for a political future? Or is the menu lousy at home? Or does he just hate eating off Tiffany?
Besides grabbing a guess, who knows why this kid is schlepping out to share in corned beef, cabbage and tuna.
Could maybe be he already has advance notice about some local big-shot pol who’s about to be honored with a testimonial probe.
Only in New York (and New Jersey and Washington), kids, only in New York and New Jersey and Washington.