Bloody brilliant. They even give the actor playing Homer plumber butt as he runs through the garage.

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I didn’t see Crash. I was going to when I came back to America in July even though the reviews were tepid because I was curious about how they handled the subject matter and I am a sucker for ensemble flicks with lots of actors I like. Then my friend Darren and his boyfriend went on a rant telling me how bad it was, so I spent my $14.00 somewhere else.

Why did the Academy go with Crash? The producers sent out a crazy number of screeners to members and sometimes (often) people confuse the importance of the subject matter with a good story. I’m sure I’ll catch Crash someday on cable. I admire the filmmakers for making the film.

Brian at Faggoty Ass Faggot said it best in his post regarding Crash vs BBM:

“There’s still hope for Brokebreakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo

Somewhere this morning, Ann Coulter and her orgy of sycophants are orgasming in glee that Hollywood turned back that faggot cowboy movie from winning Best Picture honors last night.

Equally as shrill are gay bloggers everywhere shrieking about deep-seated homophobia in the film industry torpedoing Brokeback Mountain’s rightful place as the top movie.

Me? I’m a’ight with the world today. If you’re not going to give the Oscar to the ground-breaking fag flick, why not award the film that tries to start a dialogue about race in America?

Clearly, though, Crash was not the best picture this year. When I walked out of the theater last summer, its message left me broken. Even flawless Tinseltown beauties living perfect tanned and toned lives can’t overcome their own racism? I was defeated by the overwhelming helplessness of race relations in this country.

After the heartbreaking Brokeback, though, I was determined. Determined to write something equally as beautiful someday. Determined to work so that no one would ever feel such fear that they could not find and accept love. Determined that I would never pass up the opportunity to grab happiness when I stumbled upon it.

Now that’s my picture of the year.”

Hear, hear!

Let us all be determined to never pass up happiness when we stumble upon it.

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Screaming. I wake up. Heart in my throat. I wake up and I can hear a woman screaming outside in the night.

I’m alone. Stuart is away on business and Jennifer has a sleep in shift.

What do I do? A woman is screaming and I am alone.

Wait. As I wake up, I realize what it is.

It’s a fox.

In Tucson in the early morning I would often wake up with my heart thumping at dawn to the sound of rabbit screams as they were being killed by coyotes. I had been told that fox barking could sound like screams but this was the first time I’ve heard it. (If you have Real Player you can listen to a red fox barking here)

So far, I’ve only seen one fox here in London. I was walking home at night and we saw each other at the same time. He was larger than I expected. We both froze, and then he glided into the front garden of the house we were standing in front of and disappeared.

It felt like I imagined him.

There is something magical about seeing a wild animal in an urban setting. It also is rather sad.

My apartment in Los Angeles was walking distance from Griffith Park Deer would sometimes wander down to the parking lot at the AFI, and you would often see coyotes skulking around the Hollywood streets.

One night, I noticed what I thought was a new cat hanging out outside one of the apartment buildings on my street. There were always three or four that lounged around the front door. When I got closer I realized that it was a skunk that was hanging out with the kitties.

Walk away. Just walk away.

On the list of bad things that can happen to you, getting sprayed by a skunk comes just after getting cut up into tiny little pieces by a serial killer. My friend Nanci’s cat was sprayed and her house reeked for weeks. If you even drive by an area where a skunk has sprayed the smell will waft into your car.

When you go hiking in Los Angeles (yes, there is lots of hiking in Los Angeles) there are signs warning you about mountain lions. Attacks are rare, but have been known to happen.

Back to foxes. . .

There was a lot of hoopla about the banning of fox hunting in this country. I’m all for it. It isn’t as if you eat the fox. There doesn’t seem to be any point in it. The population is self-regulating depending upon the availability of food.

While I must admit when I walk outside and I see that a fox has ripped into one of our trash bags, I do curse them for a moment, I think hunting them is wrong.

At his flat in Brixton, Stuart used to have a fox that would hang out and sleep on the front step. This last September when he was walking home one night, he saw three foxes together– which was really unusual since they are so solitary.

He got the bright idea to chase them away. One ran down the street, one bounced straight up into the air over the wall into a front garden and the third got pissed and rushed him. I’m guessing she must have been a vixen and the other two had been her babies.

I told Stuart my theory. “Well Thomas. When it’s dark and it’s chasing you down the street, you don’t really think about that .”

It never fails to make me giggle. . . imaging Stuart running down a dark London street lined with Victorian houses, waving his arms in the air like Kermit The Frog, a red fox hot on his heals.

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I still haven’t memorized my mobile or our landline. Every time I need to give someone my number, I look at a copy of my CV. I’m not sure why I haven’t sat down and memorized my info. There are four year olds that can memorize their phone number.

I finally got all my bank stuff sorted and have a ATM Visa and a Barclay Visa card that each have their own four digit pin code that you need to know when you use the card. There is a special membership number that you need to punch in along with your password and you need to detail random letters from a secret word to view the account information online.

There isn’t enough room in my brain for more numbers.

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I must remember to not drink and blog.

Stayed up until five like an idiot then woke up at 9 and I can’t fall back asleep even though I am exhausted. . . All just to find out who won the Oscars.

I need to join a support group.

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bullshit interview.

Idiot ass reporter interviewing Altman- makes a comment about Altman “inventening” intercuting dialogue in Mash.

?????????????

Altman says, (major paraphrase) “Did you ever watch Howard Hawks? He did it first.”

Fucking AWESOME!

If you don’t know Howard Hawks, go rent one of his flicks NOW.

Blows my mind the idiots that ask questions about film that don’t know their bloody history.

Saw Altman at the AFI for a screening. What a gentleman. Was so impressed with him. God, I hope The Prarie Home Companion Movie is good. Please. please, please be good.

Please?

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This most recent rant is regarding Best song and the award going to “Hard Out Here for a Pimp’

The song sucks.

IT SUCKS ASS.

BIG FAT HAIRY ASS.

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The online telecast went from The Oscars to the backstage masturbation interviews.

Ach.

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First Three Awards- and I have picked right. I enjoy being right- money is on the line. Crossing my fingers for the rest of the evening,

Listening to the Oscars, rather than watching is interesting. No clothes to admire or mock- and my computer keeps kicking on me.

I can’t help it. I know these awards are silly- but I love them.

And my 1st boyfriend now has an oscar. Go George! If I may say so sir, you kick ass. I love you- and it is not just because you have a pet pig.

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Okay- I can’t see it but I can hear it on oscar.com. I’ll live with that.

I love you Jon. . .

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