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I’m about to shock you. I am one of the few card-carrying fags in America who could give a shit about the Academy Awards. That’s right ladies, contrary to popular belief and despite what your tweaked-out hairdresser tells you, there are gay men in this country that find the myopic antics of AMPAS to be self-congratulatory bordering on delusional. I don’t care who hosts the show, nor do I care who wins or who loses. Were it not for the copious amounts of liquor, illegal drugs, and tasteless catered food provided to me free-of-charge at LA’s swankiest Oscar® after parties, I would elect to undergo a rigorous colon cleanse at a Montana fat farm rather than watch Anne Hathaway and James Franco pretend they appeal to America’s feckless ‘youth demographic.’
This year, instead of mindlessly boozing and drugging my way through Academy Award weekend (In Los Angeles, that goddamn show has now morphed into an evil weekend-long ‘happening’) I selflessly decided to teach my eight-year-old son to ride a bike. Instead of donning my insanely overpriced Brioni tuxedo and drunkenly rubbing elbows with Snookie and Kim Kardashian at the Elton John Academy Award® after-party, I would instead be spending quality time with my son in the bowels of Griffith Park surrounded by other comatose mommies and daddies.
After we arrived at the park, we unpacked the bike and my son Ethan ‘suited up’ for his first lesson. Unlike the days when you and I just hopped on our bitchin’ banana seat bikes and ‘winged it’ without any kind of protection whatsoever, my boy eerily resembled Jeremy Renner from THE HURT LOCKER. Every inch of him was covered by some kind of shield, padding, or guard. I marveled he could pedal at all what with the 30 pounds of armor now heaped on his small frame.
During our lesson, my son worked extremely hard to move the bike forward under his own power and even found the time to shout words of encouragement at me like, ‘I know this isn’t the Vanity Fair party, but you’re doing great dad!’ and ‘After all this hard work, you’re going to LOVE the Martini I make for you tonight!’
I’m proud to say that my eight-year-old son Ethan didn’t fall once during our lesson, and true to his word made me the most kick-ass Pomegranate Martini for our own, private Oscar® viewing party. True, I may be a queer, a drunk, and an Academy Award® hypocrite, but goddamn it, my kid can ride a bike – can yours?
You are so right. Who the “forget” watches that crap anymore. We tuned out at 915pm and flipped on the DVR to watch some SERIOUS telly: Joan and Melissa. (hint hint)
The premise of an awards show that awards 99% of its awards to US/British/English films is a bit self-promoting I would venture to say.