“Uma, Ophra, and Op, Alabama,” can you tell me how these things go together?
“Not very well,” is the answer.
Your roving South-Alabama-native-but-living-in-Manhattan columnist crashed a few Oscar parties here in New York City.
Normally, like most of the billion viewers who watched Monday night’s event on ABC, I view the Oscars alone, dressed in my finest underwear, and eating a gourmet dinner of pizza, Foot Loops, or other health food.
But not this year. In this column’s ongoing effort to get you the most moderately correct, nearly truthful, only slightly exaggerated insights into New York and Hollywood, I asked Vanity Fair Magazine for help. In a delirious moment of honesty, I can admit that I happen to be employed by Vanity Fair, which made it considerably easier to get into their company party.
The magazine hosted a New York Oscar Party attended by many people who looked very stylish. I was not among that group. In fact, I probably looked pretty tired since I am of the opinion that the endless Oscars last too long and I don’t like staying out past one in the morning.
Nonetheless, I was determined that this would probably make a good story for the readers back home, so selfless and modest guy that I am, I endured. This meant finding something “chic” to wear. “Chic” is not a barnyard fowl or a loose woman. “Chic” is a moronic way to say “stylish” and is pronounced like “sheik.”
Frankly, I own little that is “chic” so I opted for a seresucker suit and bow tie. I recalled that the attractive celebrities at the often Oscars seem to have picked out the ugliest, nerdiest hairdos and clothing imaginable to look “chic.” The worse they look, the more stylish they seem to be. So I went for this. In retrospect, it was something of a mistake since everyone mistook me for the waiter. The celbrity ugly chic relies heavily on two things: being a attractive to begin with and being a celebrity.
The event was at a restaurant called “Patroon.” I’m not sure what “Patroon” means. Perhaps it is a European version of a spittoon. Regardless, Patroon was awash with free cigars and wiskey. Not that this reporter EVER endulges in either one of those two terrible vices. Certainly not. Especially not when writing a potential story for The Andalusia Star News. Nor did I ogle any of the scantily clad celebrities on television. Finally, let it be known that I DID NOT dance. Okay, okay, maybe I boogalooed a little and Nicole Kidman looked . . . ah . . . nice. But if you hear any rumours about me doing a table dance drinking Harvey Walbangers with Rosanne Barr and Ted Koppel, please know that they are malicious lies designed to besmirch my good name.
That said, I never can seem to guess which movie will get best picture. This year, I thought the movie Sling Blade might win, but it was no doubt sabotaged by the fact that the writer, director, and star was named “Billy Bob.” The same thing robbed Elsie-May Clampett of a Emmy for her role in the Beverly Hillbillies. Had “Billy Bob” gone by “William Robert Thorton,” Sling Blade might have faired better. Someone should file a descrimination suit in Hollywood. We Southerners were robbed.
Unfortunately, I can’t think of much else to tell you about the Oscar party except to say that I’ve been to many backyard barbecues in River Falls that I thought were more fun. What do you bet Billy Bob thought the same thing, Andalusia?
—Morgan Murphy