The Red Carpet
I know B-Side already provided live commentary on the red carpet, but I really do feel a need to comment myself. The moment I turn on the TV at 4:29pm, eager for Oscar coverage, the first thing I see is Star Jones "interviewing" Clive Owen. The awkwardness level is best left undescribed.

Hoping for greener pastures, I switch to TV Guide Channel, only to find Joan Rivers attempting to chat up Virginia Madsen, clearly with no idea who Ms. Madsen is or why she's there. So back to E! for "relief," only to find that Star Jones WILL NOT SHUT UP about "glamazons." She seems to think every woman she meets should be called a "glamazon." Little does Star know that, in New York City at least, the Glamazons are a troupe of plus-size women who do burlesque acts downtown. Or who knows, maybe that's the comparison she's going for. Although my guess is that she's probably just thinking about the buffet.

Seriously, by 5:02pm, I'm already at merriam-webster.com looking up synonyms for "awful," because between Star Jones, Kathy Griffin, Joan and Melissa Rivers, and Billy Bush, I certainly am gonna need them. Thankfully, the show is about to start.

5:30pm
The awards ceremony begins with the standard masturbatory movie montage, this time narrated by Dustin Hoffman, waxing poetic and self-important about the universality of movies, the poetry of onscreen gun violence, etc. Platitudes and banalities abound, warming the pacemaker-controlled hearts of drooling, wheelchair-bound Academy members everywhere.

5:34pm
The announcer introduces host Chris Rock. About 900 pairs of Depends undergarments in the elderly white audience are suddenly, umm, laden. Mr. Rock's first words are "Sit yo asses down." He welcomes us to the "77th and last Academy Awards." This could be a good night.

5:35pm
Mr. Rock mentions that there'll be singing, dancing, and shooting—and the cameras cut immediately to P. Diddy. Then Prof. Rock informs us that "You doing a movie about the past, you best to get Russell [Crowe]'s ass." My god, this is stellar. His voice alone should get a lifetime achievement award.

5:42pm
Oprah is shocked by the aggressively urban monologue. "Goodness me, those Negroes!" she thinks.

5:43pm
Obligatory shout-out to U.S. troops fighting in Iraq as Hollywood tries to cover its leftist ass.

5:44pm
Halle Berry comes out to present Best Art Direction. Damn, she really is one of those people who just cannot ever look bad. But why is Art Direction first rather than Supporting Actress? And it appears the nominees are gonna be onstage this time as the winner is announced. This is odd. Anyway, The Aviator gets its first Oscar. Lame.

5:47pm
In immediate, sharp, and unflattering contrast to Halle Berry, disaster Renée Zellweger comes out to present Best Supporting Actor. Ms. Zellweger looks, and is, awful. Attempting to be a geisha, she fails miserably; geishas are exotically pale, you dumb ho, not hideously pasty.

I'm coy.

5:50pm
Finally, Morgan Freeman wins. Thank god. Cynical as I may try to be, this is really nice. But never fear, I'm sure John Travolta or somebody will ruin it later. Aww, Morgan Freeman and Clint Eastwood are so cute together. Don't you just wanna see them move to Vermont and get a civil union?