Announcing the Wrong Best Picture Wasn’t the Dumbest Thing About the Oscars
All the money in Hollywood, all the outrageous salaries and back-end deals written in hieroglyphics and what was inside the diaphanous globes that dropped from the ceiling during the Academy Awards broadcast? Candy. Red Vines, Junior Mints, Lemonheads, and Mike and Ikes. You’d think with the kind of cash Hollywood hoards they’d drop the keys to some Maybachs or Groupons for plastic surgery. Candy in a town where BYOS means Bring Your Own Sugar because no one has any, at least that’s what the housekeeper said when I asked. I don’t plan on being invited back which is why I helped myself to some designer soap out of one of the seven bathrooms which p.s. is really obnoxious and sorry my bag wasn’t big enough to jack some toilet paper.
Watching movie stars lunging, lurching, grabbing as if they’d never had anything free in their lives was ridiculous. Oscar gift bags are worth a minimum of $100,000. In 2015, they were worth $168,000. If you win, or present, or even write for the Oscars, you get one. At the same event, Jennifer Aniston handed her sunglasses to a tourist that host Jimmy Kimmel had bussed in. She thought she’d get them back. The sunglasses were worth $625, which was my starting rent in 1992. The woman she gave the glasses to walked off with them and Aniston complained, although her net worth is $150 million dollars. She could buy 240,000 pairs of those glasses and I’m sorry there’s math in this post.
When I first moved to Hollywood from New York, I walked to my local supermarket and while standing in the checkout line pretending not to read The Enquirer, I fingered a Snickers bar. It was hard as a rock. I reached for the one behind it and it too was hard as a rock. Maybe Corporate Snickers had not memo’ed Los Angeles Snickers that the preferred mode of eating them was when they were edible.
I bought it anyway because my sugar addiction is only slightly less severe than Johnny Depp’s addiction to black eyeliner. I unwrapped it on the walk home and discovered that parts of the chocolate had discolored to a grayish brown. It looked like a block of hardened cremains and don’t ask me how I know what hardened cremains looks like.
“Why are the Snickers bars at the supermarket hard as a rock and discolored?” I asked my sister.
“We don’t eat those here. I mean, do you want to die?”
“I had a craving for chocolate.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE!”
“I’m 5’6”, that’s totally normal.”
“Maybe on Planet Jumbo, but not here in L.A.”
“That’s a size 8.”
“It used to be an 8, in the Midwest it’s now a (she whispered this part) twelve. Here in L.A. it’s a 10 but unless someone is referring to how you look overall, you do not EVER want to be a 10.”
“This is a stupid conversation.”
“Hey, I don’t make the rules; it’s just the way things are.”
“I’ll bet Planet Jumbo doesn’t have these rules. How much do you weigh?” I asked.
“I weigh more than you because my muscle mass weighs more than your fat. Once I measure your B.M.I. you’ll see what I mean.”
“Jesus, people measure their fat?”
“Yes, don’t you read Muscle & Fitness magazine?”
“Yeah, only I call it Vogue. So what do you buy when you go to the movies?”
“Have people over?”
“Talk about an oxymoron. Don’t you ever have a craving for something sweet?”
“Nope. Up your protein intake, more chicken, fish, and edamame, you like edamame, right?”
“Unless that’s a fancy word for candy, I’m guessing no.”
“And no food after six p.m.”
“Sometimes I want a snack in the middle of the night.”
“NES, Nighttime Eating Syndrome.”
“You make it sound like a disease. It’s not a disease, is it?”
“Just eat more protein and you’ll lose your sugar cravings.”
“I don’t want to lose them.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t if it means I can never eat sugar again.”
“So try Red Vines, Junior Mints, Lemonheads, or Mike and Ikes. Less calories.”