The Oscars

I'm watching the Oscars. I do every year, and each time, I wonder why I do. I haven't seen 99 percent of the movies nominated. In many cases, I don't even know who the presenters are. However, here I sit, watching anyway.

I'm annoyed this year. They're beating the lack of black nominees into the ground. I appreciate the need and desire to shine a bright light on it, to use mitigating humor. I get it. But enough already. I have no idea if it's assuaging anyone's pique. I can't imagine how it could. The most powerful thing said on the subject was in the opening monologue, when Chris Rock brought up so many civil rights tragedies, things that really mattered.

A few minutes ago, clips were shown of an award given to Spike Lee. I've always admired him, and his work. Years ago my mom and I were in New York. Julie Andrews was scheduled to be on one of the morning shows, and my mom wanted to see if we could get in. From what I remember, we left the hotel before six in the morning, to go wait in line. We took the car service from Times Square and made our way to the studio. The streets were so quiet, and there was a chill in the air when we got out of the car. We stood on the street, trying to get our bearings. I looked one way, and then the other. As I turned back around to tell my mom that was the way I thought we should go, we came almost face to face with Spike Lee. As we passed, he looked at me, nodded, and said something akin to "Hey, how are you?" 

My mom stopped in her tracks. She grabbed my arm and wanted to know how I knew Spike Lee. I'm pretty sure I laughed, shook my head, and kept walking. She wouldn't let it go, even when I stated simply that he was just being polite. There were several other moments of serendipity we experienced on that particular trip. Being given house seats to RENT, which had just opened and was impossible to get tickets to . . . stumbling on a Wild Colonials video shoot, and hanging out watching . . . and having Lauren Hutton sit on a bench next to us and asked about the band . . . it was a crazy trip. Not long after, Julie Andrews had surgery, and for all intents and purposes, stopped singing. We saw her in Victor/Victoria that week. My mother was probably one of Julie Andrew's biggest fans. So much so, that when she died, I suggested her fan friends let Ms. Andrews know. 

The smallest, seemingly unimportant things, can bring forth such profound memories. One thought leads to another, and soon I find myself shaking my head after it's gone too far, and morphed into something I'd rather not remember. I wish then, that I could've stopped when it was still happy. 

The Oscars drag on. The most interesting awards still have not been given, but they promise to be next. How many times I've told myself that next year, I won't watch. And how many times have I watched anyway. Many more, I'm certain.