There Will Be Strawberry Jelly

There was an Oscar party yesterday at Seth's friend's house. I think between he, I, her, and her roommate, we had seen about half the films that were up for consideration overall, but we'd each seen Juno at least once.

In the station on the way there, a saxophonist played "And I Love Her" for spare change. If he hadn't been on the opposite side of the tracks, I would have given him spare dollars. Among other things, this prompted Seth and I to spend most of the ride there singing "Bohemian Rhapsody."

This is the same friend that we spent both Christmas and the Superbowl holidays with, and so we inadvertently established a tradition of toting copious amounts of food on the train and stuffing ourselves silly upon arrival. We'd agreed that our dishes had to correspond to a nominated film. Her roommate got mini pecan pies and jelly to stand for the meat pies and blood in Sweeney Todd. Seth got french bread and baby brie for Michael Clayton, and pickles and peanut butter for Juno. I brought milkshake supplies for There Will Be Blood.

I watched a Barbara Walters interview with Harrison Ford in a segment before the ceremony. His first agent had told him that he'd never go anywhere in the business. She asked him if it bothered him that he never won an Oscar. He said no. I think I'd rather have his career than an Oscar, anyway. She asked what he would most like to be remembered for in his lifetime, and he said, "As a good collaborator."

The red carpet pre-show only made me feel contrary. The other three spent that half hour criticizing the hell out of the outfits and actors, and I spent it contradicting them out of spite, regardless of whether or not I agreed. Which usually I didn't.

I was already ripe with a food baby before Jon Stewart got warmed up, and my best friend didn't win his category, but mostly I didn't have any major beef with the decisions. I especially enjoyed the Tribute to Binoculars Montage, when the voice-over announcer stumbled over an actress's name, and when one of the winners for Best Original Song got to come back on and make her acceptance speech when she was cut off by the musicians.

Perambulance

I was walking with Seth in the park this past unseasonably-sunny-yet-seasonably-chilly Thursday, when our ramble was interrupted first by the crescendoing squalls of an approaching baby and second by a man hurriedly pushing this angsty child in a stroller past us.

My initial annoyance was superseded by my impressed realization at how sly that trick was. I imagined him having a twenty-minute distance to cover in ten or less before the old lady came home and bitched at him for leaving his dirty socks on the floor again, or for potentially making them late for the six-month-old's play date. Instead of sighing in resignation, it would strike him to gently nudge the child awake or take away its Dora the Explorer until you could hear its wails in the East Village. All he'd need is a blue and red flashing light. Sidewalk traffic would clear to his advantage, and he would make it back to the apartment with minutes to spare. Crying baby! Very urgent! Stand back!

Or he could have been a pushy asshole. Whatever. Since I plan to keep this tactic in mind for future use, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

A 15-Minute Brush With Fame

I served coffee to Phillip Seymour Hoffman this past Tuesday. I didn't freak out or gush or get his autograph, because that would not have been professional. And by professional, I don't mean barista-wise, I mean acting-wise. Maybe that's a little pretentious of me. But he did look really tired. He got a triple espresso (in case you wanted to know), so he must have been.

(But yes, I blushed like a Catholic hooker, and yes, my hands shook the whole time. And he smiled and thanked me and left a tip. What a gentleman. I want to buy all of his movies.)

I was really geeked out, and continue to be, but it also reminded me that I got to meet Danny Glover in Kirksville almost three years ago. And when I was younger, I met the guy who played the older brother on The Wonder Years when he was signing autographs at the Target store.

Somehow, this reminiscence merged Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon with Andy Warhol's "Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes, etc., etc." principle, which seemed ot me a stupid one anyway, because what did he mean by "fame"? Did he mean local fame, or national, or international fame, or somewhere in the middle? How many people would have to hear of them to constitute "fame"? Does posthumous fame count? Did he even bother to take into account that technology could get so wide-reaching and specialized that socitety might eventually fragment into as many individualized demographics as there are people themselves, each person choosing only what he or she wanted to see and hear and consume in their own private Idahos?

Therefore, I conceived a much more plausible, easy-to measure postulate. Each person in the world will have at least fifteen minutes of meeting someone famous. It counts if you are chatting in the grocery line with Bill Gates for five minutes, take a minute to get Scott Baio's autograph, and spend ten glorius minute sharing a cab with Danny Elfman on the luckiest night of your life. Maybe not the best one of his. My point is, it can conglomerate if needed. If you happen to be famous yourself, great. Not only will your work be taken care of, but then you can spread the joy of meeting someone famous to others.

Fifteen minutes at a time.