Oscar, Oscar, Oscar...

The long annual Sunday siege is over. The 80th Academy Awards once again provide the yearly anti-climax and the only true winners are the limo companies all across Los Angeles. Also, the pizza and Chinese food joints who wind up delivering dinner to those slobs (like me) parked behind their TV trays in front of the HD Plasmas. I also got to mark up my Oscar pool ballot, which had me beating two NY-based compatriots once again.

By 2PM Pacific on Oscar Sunday, you could stand on any street corner in West LA and count the long, sleek black cars heading due east. I saw one parking in front of a RiteAid, so I am guessing this might have been an emergency Altoid purchase. Or perhaps John Travolta got a run in his stockings.

Unlike anywhere else in the country, Los Angeles virtually shuts down on Oscar weekend. Don't try to get a haircutting appointment. And forget about booking that tanning session you got with a Christmas gift card. Unless you're a movie star or your last name ends with a "Berg" or a "Stein," wait for next Saturday.

The television coverage out here is just as intense. It starts early in the morning and never stops. You would think the space shuttle exploded again. This year, there was the added drama of potential rain which would have given rise to some Manolo Blahnik-designed Totes. The local stations stand their anchorpeople and weather folks outside the Kodak Theater and everybody was staring ominously at the skies as if the Biblical locusts had finally been spotted in Pasadena. The red carpet arrivals begin early. If you get there before 330PM, you are essentially nothing but a TV star waiting for your next CSI paycheck. The limo dropoffs back up all the way down Hollywood Boulevard, which has been miraculously exorcized of all the bums, panhandlers, and sloppy Mexicans from El Monte. Those idiots, who usually park themselves outside of the Chinese Theater dressed as Superman, Marilyn Monroe, and Batman, use this one day a year to get their costumes steam cleaned.

ABC's red carpet coverage this year was anchored by Regis Philbin, and he reminded us that he had also done this years before. I wonder if he has any special memories about interviewing Hattie McDaniel. Regis continues to promote himself as this hip personality, even though he graduated from Fordham Prep in 1931. Some of the celebrities graciously stopped to entertain his inane questions. There were others, like Helen Mirren, who probably wanted to know who the f*^k he was. I was, however, impressed that he was so mobile given the fact that he was carrying around about 25 pounds of make-up.

Once the super-serious orchestra music starts inside the Kodak Theater, you know the show is ready to start. It is great fun to watch everybody scurry to find their seats and you wonder how many of them end up in the wrong place. "Hey, Joe Loser, you're not supposed to be sitting next to Renee Zellwegger! Get your ass up to the balcony."

As this year's emcee, Jon Stewart was serviceable, but apparently he had the shortest screen time of any Oscar host ever. I am supposing this had more to do with the writers' strike than anything else. Writers or no writers, Stewart got a laugh about 15% of the time, and his presence was largely done a disservice everytime the producers showed a vintage clip of former hosts Johnny Carson and Bob Hope getting much bigger laughs. The problem with Stewart is that he's not a stand-up comic and his best stuff on "The Daily Show" is written on a teleprompter. While talented, Stewart doesn't fit this room, and, in my humble opinion, Steve Martin should get this gig permanently.

Of all the four acting awards, none of them was won by an American, and that's what happens when this country focuses all their attention on such noted thespians as Jack Black and Will Ferrell. Best Supporting Actor winner Javier Bardem (inexplicably called "Xavier" by Regis during the pre-show) gave a thank you speech to his mother in Spanish and only the kitchen help at the Governor's Ball understood it. Tilda Swinton was a surprise victor for Best Supporting Actress and, from her current

appearance, I am wondering why nobody has told me that she's Conan O'Brien's sister. The cameras showed loser Ruby Dee with a rather disturbed look on her face and it was probably like she was 25 and they just told her that the "colored only" water fountain was broken.

There was another surprise to come when Frenchie Marion Cotillard slipped in as Best Actress, which probably had Edith Piaf fans rejoicing and Oscar pool coordinators reaching for their erasers. Daniel Day Lewis was a virtual shoo-in for Best Actor and he gave a short, concise thank you speech which was in direct contrast to the movie he won for.

The Best Song production numbers all blended together like the salad bar on a cruise ship. There was one guy named John McLaughlin who did a nominated song from "Enchanted" and nobody knew who the hell he was. It looked like an American Idol audition and I was waiting for Paula Abdul to show up and offer to sleep with him. Those two Irish actors won for that infectious ditty from "Once," but I doubt any of us will hear it or from them ever again.

I, for one, was delighted that Michael Moore did not win Best Documentary for that "Sicko" junk, although it would have been fun to watch him try and get out of his seat in one motion. Jack Nicholson was once again planted in the front row, despite the fact that he wasn't nominated for a damn thing. John Travolta had a weird thing going on with his hair. He looked like one of those GI Joe action figures I used to play with. Or perhaps he's experimenting with that new Scientology hair pomade. Every time the camera caught up with him, I was completely distracted by this spray-on hairdo. He actually, at first, looked like one of those police sketches of Lee Harvey Oswald. But, after a while, he really started to remind me of Paul Winchell's dummy, Knucklehead Smiff. The cameras were also not kind to last year's Best Supporting Actress Jennifer Hudson. Obviously, winning an Oscar does not guarantee more film roles, but it does get you an unlimited dining card at Roscoe's House of Chicken N' Waffles.

They trucked out last year's Best Actor winner Forest Whitaker to give out a big award, and his look also continually confuses me. His left eye always looks like he just got hit with a broomstick. It would, however, make him the perfect choice for the lead when they do a hip hop version of "Popeye the Sailor." Denzel Washington, looking even meaner than usual, came out to present Best Picture. He had this demeanor that made me wonder if somebody had egged the Obama '08 sign on his front lawn. Or perhaps he's still reeling from all the racism he endures in an industry that has made him billions of dollars. Nevertheless, the Coen Brothers grabbed the evening's last Oscar and went home with three in total, despite the fact that they are about as coherent as the wait staff at Shakey's Pizza.

At the end, Jon Stewart re-appeared for one last time and I realized that he had been off-stage so long he could have been attending one of those three hour traffic schools. The crowd dispersed, off to their respective parties. Limos probably clogged Melrose Avenue till 4AM, when the last of the homeward bound celebrities stopped at Ralph's for a pack of Newports.

As for me, I went off into the bathroom for my nightly sinus rinse. But, at least, I knew that my nose was successfully draining just a few short miles from all the action.

Dinner last night: Liverwurst sandwich.