Don’t you just love Ellen? Yes, yes I do. "But some people really don’t like her," my mother insists. This cannot be so. How can you hate on a girl who likes to dance and talks to the animals? Oh yes, I just said "hate on a girl." "Yeah, but she didn’t make me laugh." I don’t care. I love Ellen because she’s always nice, mostly always.
A small part of me wishes I were watching the oscars with my friends in New York, with sushi, watching the snowfall, pouring too much wine, bashing the outfits. The bigger part of me is happy to be here, speaking to Linus, whispering in his ears that this is the last award show we’ll watch together. "And would you look at that, baby?" I say to him as Jennifer Hudson appears on screen, during the pre-show, in her techno-mod what the hell? silver shrug, "she looks like the one black Jetson." And Cameron Diaz looks like she shopped at Cache.
As for the montage on writers, it made me feel inspired, as if I were watching Finding Forrester or Wonder Boys, or strangely enough Good Will Hunting (even though it’s not about writing at all). It made me feel better seeing all those actors (playing writers) crumpling up their own work. See, I’m not the only one. Now, along with everyone else, I’ll have to see Pan’s Labyrinth. "Is that, who is that Stephanie?" My mother interrupts after seeing the screen pan to Jerry Seinfeld. "Oh, I know, Nicholas Cage, right?" And then I recall the opening montage of nominees thanking their mothers. "It’s the guilt," they say. "I’ll be in big trouble if I don’t remember to thank my mother." I love this. I love when nominees play the love card, using their final thanks up, raising words to those who raised them. To my beautiful wife, who really, tolerates me every day and moves me, inspires me, and supports me. I think those little pieces of paper should just be banned. No more lists people, just always remember your mother. And my favorite part is always the dead people. I love watching the montage of the dead. Mr. Furley is almost as good as Ellen.