February 26, 2007: And the winners are...Lesbians, Queens, Divas, Dictators, Foreigners, and Al Gore

Lesbians, Queens, Divas, Dictators, Foreigners, and Al Gore...was it the Oscars or the next Democratic Convention?

When Melissa Etheridge won best song for her "I Need to Wake Up," from An Inconvenient Truth, I was on my 2nd Red Bull of the evening. I agreed with her, and, in fact, want her to do an entire CD about inconvenience. Include truth, rage, friendships, love affairs, celebri-spirals-all inconvenient at times. But I concur with her song, not just about America's need to respond to the looming global warming crisis. I need to wake up from celebrity pop culture.

Oscar night 2007. I was conflicted, occasionally investing higher emotions in environmentalism, the fact that an out Lesbian hosted, and sending good vibes to the celebrities I admire. But mostly, I fought the feeling that I've moved on from the unabashed excitement and vicarious spotlight the show once provided. Of course, it's not completely gone. I loved small moments that made stars seem real and "relatable," like Spielberg snapping a photo of Ellen with Clint. Wow, Steven is a real person, who laughs at silly things and knows how to work a digicam. But then I felt like a moron for thinking obvious things like that.

I knew that Cathleen was watching alone at home in New York, and we had plans to text and post live commentary on a Google blog she set up. I knew, too, that our pop culture email group was home watching, ready to send quips at a moment's notice.

Thank God for TIVO, which let me zip through the Red Carpet pre-show at time warp speed. It's an insufferable, sycophantic parade. I watch to see the expressions on stars' faces and hear what they say. I'm tired of pretending that I care what they're wearing, unless it's Cher in a unitard or Bjork dressed like a goose. Occasionally, Beyonce and Helen Mirren caught my eye with their sauntering style, and I noticed Clive Owen and Will Smith looking sharp in their tuxedos.

But mostly, I fast forwarded, especially after Joan Rivers kicked the two-hour ego-a-thon off with a tribute to herself for inventing the red carpet as we know it, much like Al Gore claimed to invent the Internet. You're no Marie Curie, Joan. You are so botoxed, you can hardly squeeze out a few jokes and the five-minute riff on tacky Anna Nicole Smith "jokes" (can't believe you went there) are flatter than your original chest.

My bullshit detector goes off on Cameron Diaz as she’s interviewed. She seems scripted and wants to make it clear why she's there since she wasn't nominated for anything. If you are not nominated, don’t spend thirty minutes talking about how these awards are all about supporting the community. Yeah, they are..when you’re not nominated. As Alan Arkin said, "Losing builds character. Anyone can win.” But I suppose that’s only comforting for nominees. She’s trying way too hard and kicking off my schadenfreude gene. I’m thinking that I’d say the same thing if in her position and that makes it worse. I wouldn’t leave that red carpet until I was 100% sure that every media outlet knew how gracious, selfless, and full of good cheer I was.

I’ll leave the fashion commentary to the fugly girls. No one does it better than them.

Instead, I’m focused on the top ten moments (I love top 10 lists. Read my Grammy Award Top 10 Lessons from 2007) that made me choked up, moved, disgusted. In other words, here’s what made me celebri-spiral during the endless Oscar-thon:

1. International worldwide talent excites me, but I can't understand what anyone is saying. What's next: subtitles? When Penelope Cruz, Catherine Devenuve, Ken Watanabe and all those Pan Labyrinth winners speak, I feel like Archie Bunker, talking back to the television. Speak English. Bitter Pan’s Labyrinth envy makes me think things like, “those people come here and steal our jobs. Put up a border.” Dave, Dave, Dave. Talent always finds room. Increase the overall pie. Don’t gripe about the size of your slice.
2. Hearing Ellen, dressed in a series of fancy pants suits and what look like sneakers, comment that “Without blacks, gays, and Jews, there’d be no Oscars,” is a seminal moment. When I was a kid, at first unaware, then later, hiding my gay identity, I projected a lot onto the Oscars. It was a three-hour immersion into glamor, excitement and vicarious overwhelming acceptance, at a time when I had none. But it was all mysterious, unspoken connection. Now, here is Ellen just literally coming out with it. No more closet. No more secret society of gay people. No more need to escape my current environment to immerse in the Oscars?
3. My entire body recoils when Gwyneth Paltrow struts out on stage as if she’s queen of the world. She slinks, struts, and looks down on the rest of us. Sharon Stone once remarked (paraphrase), “I don’t see how that girl breathes in all that rarefied air she stays in.” Recoil # 2: cuts to her in the audience, looking sullen and spoiled. It's irritating that Gwyneth wants to show us she can speak Spanish, to go with her new Brit accent. I’m clearly having some sort of issue with her this year. But I can’t help it.
4. My heart swells when Al Gore wins. Seeing Al and Tipper makes me want to turn back time and put them in the White House. I met Tipper during the campaigns and just loved her. Al deserves every bit of good he gets out of his newfound brand leadership of global warming. New rule of Oscar: don’t let Al Gore see you in anything less than a Hybrid, even though (shush), most of them don’t save you a gallon of gas unless you drive a Humvee. Along with everyone else in the room, my attempts at celebri-detachment fail. I am in love with Al Gore tonight.
5. By the time Jodie Foster leads the dead people tribute, I want to die, too. It’s almost midnight and the red bull has worn off. But I am intrigued by her almost-choked up (it's Jodie. She's not going there; not for Hinckley, not for America, not for you) reference to losing her friend Randy Stone, the producer. I immediately Google to find out that he died suddenly of heart failure at age 48. Hmmm. Married to Barbra Streisand’s sister Roslyn for two years in the 80s. Friend of Jodie. Founder of the brilliant Trevor Project, which I support. Now I am really curious. I hardly give a look to passing images of Jane Wyatt and Peter Boyle.
6. Seeing Jackie Earle Haley, former child star of The Bad News Bears, freaks me out. He’s my age and I remember being a kid thinking he was cool. His performance as a pedophile in Little Children was brilliant, scary, and oddly moving. But he’s creepy looking. He’s had a long road. It’s a wistful feeling, like seeing a childhood friend who you know just isn’t the same person anymore.
7. Alan Arkin wins, proving that the old man always has the best shot as Supporting Actor. But my father died earlier this year, so it’s hard to watch his acceptance speech without wishing my Dad had been as funny, porno-watching-overly-earthy, and full of heart as Alan's "Dad" in Little Miss Sunshine. Poor me, dad never trained me for a beauty pageant, shared his porn, or drove me cross country in a VW bus. Oscar shares my pain.
8. Lesbian intrigue abounds. Ellen, of course, with shots of her mom and girlfriend Porta de Rossi. Melissa thanking her wife Tammi. Jodie Foster, queen of the quiet power lesbians. During the costume awards, I can't help but wonder about Lesbian rumors dogging Emily Blunt and Anne Hathaway. Then the winner is announced and my inner dialogue starts (Oh my God, Edith Head lives!!! But she's foreign. At least she's definitely a mannish lesbian. But no, she thanks her husband. I am so confused.) After you think there can be no more lesbians, two more strut out, John Travolta and Queen Latifah. You're the one that I want, indeed.
9. Sherry Lansing getting the Jean Hersholt Award elicits reluctant admiration. She comes off as Superwoman. But it’s so calculated. So planned. So lacking in any real emotion, from Tom Cruise’s intro, to the film of her good works to her speech. As she walked off the stage, I felt guilty. I really need to volunteer more.
10. I see dead grandmothers. I see them everywhere. Only they don't know they're dead. I feel like I am onto Jennifer Hudson, who thanked her dead grandmother. When it doubt, steal Jamie Foxx’s speech. I want to tell her to stop faking surprise. You have won 23 awards. It may be a blessing (favorite word # 1), but it’s not a surprise (favorite word # 2). I don't buy her ingenuity anymore. Watching her sing Beyonce's song Listen made me defensive of Beyonce/Deena; it was like seeing parallel universe Effie White as perpetrator, not victim. I wanted to hear Beyonce scream, "Listen, my ass. I. Am. Irreplaceable. And. You. Don't. Know. About. Me."