The Oscars That Almost Weren't

I'll admit it: the Oscars are one of my favorite nights of the year. It's like the Superbowl, except consistently more interesting. Of course, it's probably only interesting if you've seen any of the films that have been nominated, but that's at your own discretion. I figure that the excitement I get out of watching the awards is similar to how aspiring athletes feel when they watch the Olympics. Maybe not. Whatever.

I'm not going to recap the winners because if you didn't care enough to watch it, I don't care enough to fill you in. I will say the following:

-Amy Ryan should have won Best Supporting
-Thank GOD Juno didn't win Best Picture
-Apparently Americans aren't any good at acting anymore. (Every single acting award was given to foreigners: French, Spanish, British)
-Atonement got robbed

And most importantly...GLEN AND MARKETA WON AN OSCAR!!! Not only was their performance wonderful, but they beat out THREE vomit-inducing songs from Enchanted. And well-deserved. Dan works with them at Columbia (Records) and literally the second we all stopped screaming, his phone started ringing non-stop. I am SO PROUD of them it's unreal. If you don't own the Once soundtrack, buy it immediately.

Otherwise, most of my predictions (and everyone else's) were pretty accurate. It would have been a difficult year to be on the Academy I think, because there were a lot of really great films this year. I was a little worried that there would be a repeat of 2006, when there were four fantastic films and one abomination, and it won. (Crash, of course. Would have been more aptly named Trash. Or Trainwreck. Just saying. I'm not bitter.) In similar fashion, this year there were, once again, four great nominees and one sub-par one. When I first saw the trailer for Juno, I was really stoked for it. And when I saw it, I was...significantly underwhelmed. And I'm sorry Ellen Page, you are not acting, you are playing yourself. Not difficult.

Excuse the tangent. I am happy with the awards this year because my agency more nominations than some of the biggest agencies did, and some were victorious, so yippee for that. And despite the overall boring-ness, there were some notable moments:

-Gary Busey attacking Jennifer Garner on the red carpet
-Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill pretending to be Halle Berry and Judi Dench
-Colin Farrell and John Travolta sliding all over the stage
-Cameron Diaz proves she's blonde after all
-Marketa gets snubbed for her acceptance speech and is brought back out after the commercial break to finish it
-Martin Scorsese is allowed to give the award for Best Directing now that he's FINALLY won an Oscar
-James McAvoy. Enough said.

All in all, considering it was the 80th, I thought it was pretty tame. Especially considering the whole thing almost never even happened because of the strike. You'd think it would have been a little more celebratory. Jon Stewart was moderately funny but a little too tame, and there were a few too many montages.

And now, onto the MOST IMPORTANT THINGS...what they wore!

THE WINNERS: (in no particular order)

Jennifer Garner (in Oscar de la Renta)


Katherine Heigl (in Escada)


Keri Russell (in Nina Ricci)


Cameron Diaz (in Dior)


Amy Adams (in Proenza Schouler)


Anne Hathaway (in Marchesa)


THE LOSERS:

Ellen Page


Jennifer Hudson


Tilda Swinton


Rebecca Miller


Diablo Cody



Speaking of Diablo Cody, not only does she have a naked woman tattooed on her arm and a dress with a way-too-high slit, she also wore these:



...instead of THESE:



Yes. That's right. Homegirl wore FLATS to the OSCARS. When she could have worn STUART WEITZMAN heels that are worth $1 MILLION DOLLARS. Why? Why? WHY?! You IDIOT.

But apparently all of these faux-pas are excusable because she used to be a stripper. Oh, all right. Sure. That's fine.

Anyway.

In case you were wondering--trends this year: red dresses, and being pregnant.

In closing, here is a video of the montage of all 79 best picture winners in the past, not including last night's winner. How many have YOU seen? (My answer: 47)

I Am A Slacker, Make Poor Excuses

Yes, I know I am overdue for a real post. And guess what? This isn't one either. I'm a poor excuse for a blogger, I know. The fact is, I'm better at ADD blogging like on Tumblr unless I can form enough coherent thoughts to make a relatively well-written post. Anyway, REAL POST TOMORROW. I promise.

For now, some LOLcats for your enjoyment. I don't even like cats in general (I'm much more of a dog person), but these made me laugh.







Tomorrow: Oscar recap!

Some Holiday Cheer From My Favorite Website In The Entire World

Happy Valentine's Day!

This Makes Me Sad

Re-posted, from my Tumblr:

My uncle who lives out in Los Angeles sent me this email at 1:45am. I’m pretty sure he’s drunk. He’s been running around doing different jobs for most of his adult life and has pretty much been a drifter ever since he came back from Vietnam. He and my dad used to be so similar—he was so smart, went to Brown, on the right path, then he got drafted and when he came back, was never the same. Moved out to California and never quite found his way back. For a while, he was dating this woman named Joyce who was really wealthy and so he was pretty much living off her for a while, but he broke up with her in the fall. They bought a house in Palm Beach together and I guess they’re fighting over it now. Everyone in my family is kind of glad they broke up, because she was…pretty high maintenence. She was originally from New York, and twice a year would take trips back here. But not just a trip. She would bring an entourage of twenty friends, every night would be a huge black tie affair. One time she reserved the crystal room at Tavern On The Green…yeah. A little too nouveau-riche for my family. But she LOVED me for some reason. Maybe because I was the first one of the family she met, maybe just because I live in New York. Who knows? But I couldn’t not like her when she was always so excited to see me.

I love, love, love my uncle to death. He was always my favorite uncle as a kid because he was so funny and told great stories. I thought he was so cool because he lived in California and at one point was working in television (short lived, as they all were). But now, knowing that times are tough for him, I worry. I know my dad does too, but what can he do? He would never accept money. He’s always managed to land on his feet before, but for some reason I’m more anxious this time. Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older. I think part of the reason I feel the need to move to LA is because I could be close to him and keep an eye on him. Help him, if I have to.

I know it’s not my responsibility. But last year my mom told me that she sees so much of Charles in my brother, and as soon as she said it, I couldn’t believe I never noticed it before. They’re so alike. The broseph is already such a drifter. He’s older than me and I’ve been cleaning up his messes since I was fourteen. I fear, but I know, I may still be doing that when we’re older. I’ll be like my dad, he’ll be like Charles, if we even still manage to speak to each other when we’re older. I think maybe I feel the need to take care of my uncle because its the same way I’ve had to “take care” of my older brother.

Anyway, Broseph’s story is one for another time. Come to think of it, so is my uncle’s, because it’s long and complicated. But the email wouldn’t make any sense without some info. We’ve always been so close, and had such a bond, even though I only see him a few times a year. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to not be aware of all the hope and expectations everyone in my family has on me, especially since the Broseph has…had some trouble finding his way, to put it lightly. There’s a lot of pressure to succeed, in addition to all the pressure I put on myself. But Charles has never had any expectations, because he always knew I would do well. I never felt any pressure from him, I just always knew he believed in me. I think he wants me to have the success he never had. And he, more than anyone else, is the one I could never let down.

I forgot he spoke French, he used to speak it to me when I was little. I should send an email back in French, he’d be thrilled.

Casey,

Voulez vous Be mon Valentine?

Qui est vous ankle…?

C’est manifique to think pour vous; quel your frustration level? As a doer & a goer, these weeks of rehab must be grande frrustro to the max, no pun intended. I have ‘slipped on ice’ many times in my career; I know the cost of foolishness. Welcome to the club; however, as you must have deduced by now, these times also allow you to step outside your calculated footprints, and engage a different lens-craft in your rueness. These new revelations may or may not have lasting power, but you can never argue with thyself they didn’t exist.

I’m sure you’re anxious to return to the tomorrow of your life & it will return as full as you imagined. Remember this parathenicies as a gift – in our self induced helter-skelter we don’t get many. I have total faith in your decisions & in your ability to see; be bold and boundless in your curiosity.

Me, I’m in a decent spot; life is a gift, $$ are becoming sparse – but attitude is forward & positive. Still vying with the Dutchess over the house – remain thinking 90-10 against any recovery, hoping guilt still has a chance. Just rec’d a V-day card quoting “Do you think we can make a fresh start… (con’t) I want us to hold on to our memories… She remains in total denial & has long become accustomed to disbelieve reality. To accord age with wisdom is a dangerous leap; people who don’t get real life early, never get it. To see is the power, not to have or hold; your vision is your greatest strength, it will always be your strongest ally - your feel is right, let it flow & grow.

Bon soir, mon amie.

Love you,

Ses Charles

Wow. The more I read it, the more I see the double meanings and second-level dialogue in so many things he says. This breaks my heart.

[Ding, ding, ding...the "this blog is getting too serious" alarm is going off...insert joke here.]

Fashion Week: Roll Your Eyes At Me All You Want

I have a love-hate relationship with Fashion Week. Its easy to get caught up with everyone else who claims to hate it, usually just because they like to make snarky comments about anorexic models, socialites, gay men, and Anna Wintour. It's almost as though its the "cool" thing to do these days, so people can act as though the whole thing is soooo beneath them. I've been reading so much of this recently that I feel the need to come to its defense. Most of these people, its worth noting, have never actually attended any of the events and probably don’t have the first clue about fashion. There’s a great quote from The Devil Wears Prada that perfectly responds to all those people who act so condescendingly towards the fashion industry:

“Oh, okay, I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don’t know, that lumpy blue sweater for instance, because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis, it’s actually cerulean. You’re also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And I think it was Yves St. Laurent, wasn’t it, who shows cerulean military jackets? And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room.”

It’s funny, how in a movie that’s supposed to be a sardonic characterization of the fashion world, they actually got it spot on—-how, no matter what you wear, how much you oppose the trends, no matter where you shop, if you get your clothes from the fucking Salvation Army, at one point, anything you put on was created based on something that was sent down the runway. Granted, its not a perfect industry, and there’s a lot of fucked up things that happen within it, but keep that in mind.

That being said, there are also the people who hate fashion week because they HAVE been to the events, and they’re over it. Because every year it’s the same, and all the bullshit is the same. I know plenty of people like that, and it’s completely understandable. And for those who moan and wail about the city being taken over by models and fashionistas, I always wonder, am I missing something? Personally, I don’t notice anything different about New York, except for the fact that I know to steer clear of the Waverly Inn. And then again, there are the people who still go to all the events every year and still enjoy it just as much.

I’m somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. With the onslaught of Fashion Week every year, twice a year, I get a funny feeling in my stomach that’s a mixture of excitement and dread. Excitement because the parties can be fun, there’s always free booze, and most of all, I love to see the collections. Seeing the newest creations of designers I love gets me all giddy. What can I say? Fashion is my weakness. It’s my thing. Some people get excited for new technology, or when their favorite bands come out with new albums, or for a new film by their favorite director. It’s safe to say that I enjoy all of those, but clothes are my #1.

And then there’s the dread. Or I guess a better word would be anxiety. The ordeal of going through the party circuit can be more tedious than enjoyable in a lot of cases. It could just be me—I used to do the club scene a lot, but I got it out of my system a few years ago. When you start at 16, its bound to happen. To be honest, I don’t really understand why people do it in the first place. I’ve only ever enjoyed it—-hell, only ever partaken in it when I don’t wait in line and get VIP access. I know it sounds snobby, but why would I want to wait in line forever only to be tossed around by tons of sweaty bodies and spend twenty minutes elbowing my way to the bar only to spend another twenty minutes trying to get the bartender’s attention when I can sit comfortably or move around freely and either have drinks in front of me or served? It just seems logical, right?

I can remember writing a blog entry in London after going to Paper, and being so disillusioned with the whole thing. I was bored with the pretension, and the fakeness, and everyone just showing off how much money they have and how fabulous their lives are. The parties are all about who looks the best, who’s wearing the best clothes, who has the best table, who’s with the right people. It must be exhausting, trying so hard.

So, in order to actually enjoy Fashion Week, I take it in small doses. Making an appearance at the parties that would actually be more like fun than work. Bungalow 8 is usually a good choice because it’s small, selective, and I know the people there will treat me nicely. It was great for Zac Posen’s party in 06, and in 05 for…God, I can’t even remember whose party it was, J Mendel I think? But it was fun. I decided to stick with the ZP party again this year, also because my good friend Natasha works for Zac. This year it was at the grand opening of Mansion, a significant change from B8, most notably because Mansion is fucking HUGE. Not to mention there were several added elements of spectacle, like a contortionist, an opera singer, a gospel choir, and trapeze dancers. It was like a three ring circus in there, which was actually kind of nice because it added entertainment. The DJ wasn’t half bad either—he totally redeemed himself from playing Rihanna remixes by throwing on Justice. Moral of the story: I had a really good time.

And of course the social aspect is fun (in small doses). It’s always great to meet new people, and see familiar faces. I briefly sat with Tinsley Mortimer and Olivia Palermo, and apparently the one and only Julia Allison was there for a few minutes as well. In situations like that, I get a brief and all-too-familiar glimpse of what my life could have been like if I hadn’t run screaming in the opposite direction at every turn. Don’t get me wrong, I love where and who I came from and I know how lucky I am to have the upbringing I had, but following the same path as the kids I grew up with was not something I could bring myself to do. And if it means I would have to attend every single event during Fashion Week, then I definitely made the right choice. But really, it’s not all bad. When you scale it back to what its REALLY all about—the clothes, and celebrating all the hard work that’s gone into creating them—a little bit of excess is worth it.

And for everyone who still rolls their eyes in disgust, relax, it's over. That is, until September.

(Photos are on Flickr.)

The Writer's Strike Is Ruining My Life, Part III: The Final Edition

As I mentioned on Tumblr, yesterday I went back to work. I was actually really excited to get back, only to find that one of my favorite people there had been fired because of "cutbacks", which are, as you can probably guess, the result of the strike. Some other changes have been made as well, which overall contributed to the feeling I got that this was not the same office it had been when I left. I love my job, I always have. But things have been going downhill lately, and I'm starting to wonder how much longer I want to stay.

Despite how much I do love my job, I bitch a lot about the business. It's fickle and the politics are insane. You can work your ass off, but if the wrong person doesn't like you, you're out. You sell your soul, only to end up getting chewed up and spit out. It can be awful.

I said all of that and much more in an angry tirade to a friend of mine after someone else who I really liked at work got fired a few months ago. After listening to me ranting, my friend asked me, "So why don't you do something else?"

I thought about it for a second. And then I told her, "I don't think I could do anything else."

It's true--plenty of other people I know have easy, less-stressful jobs that they enjoy in other fields. But I could never do that. I couldn't even picture myself having a normal, boring, every-day job. To be honest, it sounds horrific. I admire the people who can do it, but...I can't. No matter how miserable I may be sometimes, it's nothing compared to how miserable I'd be doing something else. And besides, for every bad day, there are so many more good ones.

As for the strike, this officially marks the end of any sympathy I had for the writers. I'm done supporting them. Like I said a long time ago, the strike won't be worth it. And it hasn't been. It's done so much more harm than good, and at this point, more people will remember it in a negative way than a positive one. And in the mean time, nothing can be done to make up for the damage that's been done.

The Worst News Ever

Well, that was unexpected.

The Patriots are not supposed to lose. After an 18-0 season, going into the Superbowl playing the Giants should have been a breeze. A cakewalk. The Red Sox win the World Series another year, the Celtics have made a comeback to become one of the best teams in the league, and the Bruins…well, God love them, they try. But the Pats were a shoe-in. No sweat. The Giants SUCK. They SUCK! This WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME TOM? CAN YOU MAKE ONE GOOD THROW? OR WOULD YOU JUST RATHER STAND THERE UNTIL THEY TACKLE YOU? APPARENTLY YOU WOULD. AND BILL, WHY DID YOU HAVE TO WEAR A FUCKING RED SWEATSHIRT? WHY?!

Ahem.

There were parts of the game that felt familiar to me, but in the wrong context. As a Boston sports fan, I’ve suffered endless disappointment -- heart-wrenching, cringe-worthy, devastating disappointment at the hands of the Red Sox. The feeling of getting your hopes up, making it so far, only to have it ripped from your hands and shoved down your throat. But the Patriots are not supposed to cause this kind of disappointment. The Red Sox are the abusive boyfriend that we could never break up with, the unemployed alcoholic who kept beating the shit out of us but we could never say no to and kept coming back to. The Patriots were the nice, handsome guy who never failed to let us nurse our wounds or cry on his shoulder; who was successful and had a good job and came from a nice family. After another harsh blow by the Sox every October, we could readily turn to the reliable Pats to bring us to a happy victory in the post season. But now the tables have turned. The Red Sox have cleaned up their act and gotten their shit together. And the Patriots are the ones who got our hopes up and brought us all the way to the end, only to blindside us with a backhand blow that we never saw coming.

In the last few nailbiting minutes, I also felt the same feeling I got every time my team in high school, whether it be field hockey, basketball, or lacrosse, suddenly found ourselves down but with the possibility of a comeback with little time left. I can still vividly picture the faces and reactions of all my coaches when we would come running to the sidelines during a timeout, whether down a goal with one minute left or down five points with five minutes left. My lacrosse coach always remained calm, icily dishing out a play command, with no need to raise her voice because we were all perfectly aware of the suicides and five miler we’d be running after the game if we lost. My basketball coach would yell, emphasizing each individual word as if it would give us the extra oomph we needed to get ahead. My field hockey coach never said a word. We would all run over, and I would be the one rattling off instructions to everyone while she stood there silently, and when I finished, I’d look to her for a nod before we got back on the field. (Varsity captain, thank you very much.) My lacrosse coach at NYU was a screamer. What every situation had in common was the same heart-pounding anxiety, the same anxiety I felt while watching the final minutes of the game tonight. The only difference was that this time I couldn’t run out onto the field, completely fired up and ready to do whatever it took to win. I had to sit there, literally on the edge of my seat, Lauren’s fingernails digging into my arm, chewing my fingernails off as the final seconds ticked down. And then had to stop myself from throwing plates on the ground, smashing my mom’s crystal bowl, and stabbing a fork in my eye.

On a different, but lighter note, my mother is the only person I know who would serve salsa con queso in a Tiffany’s crystal bowl, and have quiche at a superbowl party.

My dad is now fuming in his study, probably dreading work tomorrow since he does most of his business with New York, and I am fuming on the couch, dreading going back to New York tomorrow.

At least I didn’t have to watch the game with any Giants fans.

THE BEST NEWS EVER!

I CAN WALK AGAIN!!!!!!!!

NO MORE CRUTCHES!!!!!!!!

According to my surgeon, who I saw this morning.

Dear Life,

Welcome back!

Love,
Case