Oscar Makes Us Grouchy

The only reason people watch the Oscars is to complain about watching them. Four hours of one’s life down the drain to watch Martin Scorsese hoist an award he should have hoisted many years ago, or so goes the common assumption. But, really, was Goodfellas that much better than Dances With Wolves? If Kevin Costner is involved the answer is painfully easy. Maybe Oscars should be handed out 10 years after the release date of any given film instead of two months later. The perspective of time might have talked some sense into voters who picked The English Patient over Fargo for Best Picture.

Oscar loses a bit of its luster when one learns how much marketing goes into it. It has become so bad that Congress is thinking of stepping in and set up campaign finance rules for Oscar nominees. But then no one in Washington wants to take on Big Hollywood unless they are Republican. You can’t run for office as a Republican unless you take on Big Hollywood at some point. Democrats have Big Oil, Republicans have Big Hollywood. Although I think I might rather watch a gay love story than see footage of an oil covered polar bear any day.

Speaking of political parties - Oscar nominees should split themselves into five separate parties – Comedy, Musical, Documentary, Drama, and Action Film. The primary season would begin with February releases declaring their candidacy for Best Picture. The drama nominee could then decry the comedy nominee’s lack of seriousness about grave subject matters. Picture it, Scorsese on the stump focused on the talking point of how “Little Miss Sunshine” treats depression, suicide and Proust lightly. And Al Gore could talk about how global warming is a greater threat than the South Boston Irish Mafia.

The Oscars will keep sucking me in, as does the Super Bowl every year, because I am addicted to the spectacle. Also because I like saying things like – “I’m glad Scorsese finally won, but can you believe that someone thought that Dances With Wolves was better than Godfather III?”

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Presidents Day -- All Inclusive

This holiday used to be known as Washington’s Birthday when I was younger. Then someone got the bright idea to call it Presidents Day. According to Wikipedia this change was driven by advertisers who wanted to hold “Presidents Day” as opposed to Washington’s Birthday sale events. That’s like calling Christmas Deities Day – in which one can celebrate the birthday of the deity in choice. Apparently George Washington doesn’t have enough of a Q-rating to move mid-sized sedans – Lincoln was always a better pitchman anyway.

One benefit of calling the holiday “Presidents Day” is that now lesser-known presidents won’t feel so left out. Arthur, Hayes and Polk are like the kids who can’t play soccer, but get a participation trophy anyway. Perhaps all presidents should get onto Mount Rushmore, but only after they are dead. And in smaller scale than the four already on there so that they’ll be easy to get rid of if America ever gets run over by Islamo-fascists, or some other wacky cult that believes in the divinity of civic leaders.

That’s what this day is all about – honoring the legacy of the Executive Branch. But why should the EB get all the love? There are supposed to be two other branches of government. There should be a Supreme Court Justices Day – preferably in mid spring – and a floating Congressional Representatives Day.

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Name My Child, Please

It may just have to be Fenway Park Vallancourt. With the Missus Jazz due on February 28, we are on deadline, and that is the best name we have come up with if we have a boy. By choosing not to find out the sex of our child, we have to come up with two viable names – kinda like watching a DVD with alternate endings. We’ve had the girl’s name locked up for months, but the Missus could deliver any time before her due date, and we would be stuck without a boy’s name. Baby Boy Vallancourt would be an inauspicious way to start our career as parents.

The Missus and I have spent a great deal of time thinking about names we don’t want.
Common boy names are a minefield of worthless human beings, people we like, but don’t want to think we like well enough to name our child after, or genuinely disliked public figures – not that we would have ever considered George or Condoleeza, but, you get the point. So the trick is to come up with a name that is unusual without being weird.

The Missus Jazz liked Noah for a while, but that happens to be a name I detest for no good reason other than I hate it. It’s not that I think our child wouldn’t possess the ability to build a boat once global warming continues to accelerate throughout the coming century; I just don’t like the name. Thankfully, Noah was killed early on for the Missus when we witnessed a whiny child named Noah struggle to milk a goat at a local farm.

Vallancourt Vallancourt may be the way to go simply because it is going to be called Vallancourt throughout its life if it is a boy, just like its dad. I once had a roommate who came close to telling the person on the other end of the phone that they had a wrong number because the person asked for Chris. “Oh, you mean Vallancourt,” he said when the light of recognition went on.

The next best thing would be to come up with a new creation – kind of like Frank Zappa did with Dweezil and Moon Unit. A child’s name should be like a brand – evocative and mysterious, and eventually ubiquitous. I’ve tried a few of these names on the Missus – Prismatata, Phelistimon, Norubonio, but she just looks at me in that way…

So Fenway Park it is for now, as we get set to pull another all-nighter with the baby name book.

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Because Every Package is a Threat

These are dangerous times we live in. I should know. I call 9-1-1 every time a package appears on my doorstep. The package delivery people (who shall remain nameless since they refused to spend $1,500 to be mentioned here), have told me that the police have started to pre-screen my packages. I do not believe this to be true, so I continue to call the bomb squad in every time.

Even if I recognize who supposedly sent the package, there is no telling who handled it along the way. Is an order-filler at an online retailer (who also declined to pony up $1,500) waiting to meet virgins in the afterlife? Did my aunt (another one who declined to pay $1,500) have secret meetings with a terrorist leader (whose $1,500 I told the police I won’t accept).

Thus far I am out $4,500 (plus $1,500 I won’t accept). I was going to use this money to hire a food tester. It’s obvious that the package delivery people, who could have had two mentions for $2,500; online retailer, who could have had the same deal; and my aunt who would have received a special family discount (two mentions for a mere $2,999!) – it’s obvious that none of these people care enough about my safety or the synergy of sponsoring this article.

The food tester, an intriguing young woman named Wanda, charges by the hour and provides other services in addition to food testing. I only mention her to get a discount on said services. The only problem? She keeps calling me John, but my name is Phil. However, she said she would never send me a package. I think she’ll get a glowing performance review.

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