Bash Compactor: Oscar Off the Shelf and Out of the Closet

| 13 Aug 2014 | 03:35

    Size isn’t everything, but after my disastrous marriage, I never date short men anymore. Oscar is only 13 inches tall, though very buff for his small stature, weighing in at eight pounds. Is my prejudice against his height why I’ve been avoiding the Academy Award ritual lately?

    “I really don’t give a crap who wins.” That’s what I proclaimed regarding the 2010 show. For one thing, I hadn’t seen even one of the films. I haven’t been to a film in a theater for several years, but then again, lots of people catch their flicks on DVD or cable. Here it was, the 82nd time already. I’d always watched the Academy Award ceremony since childhood, every year religiously. Maybe I should give it a shot, I thought.

    My antique Sony Trinitron from the ’80s that has never broken seemed to be on the blink (I later discovered it wasn’t’ plugged in properly). A night laughing at the celebutards parading around in their borrowed gowns gushing about how very honored they are to lug Oscar home might be a gas. “I haven’t seen any of the films this year either,” confessed drag queen extraordinaire and wit Linda Simpson who was hosting the Oscar viewing party at restaurant/bar [VIG 27] on East 27th Street. Her wig was brown, her dress pink. She was going for the look on the invite. “Funky red carpet attire strongly suggested,” it said. I’d squeezed into my elegant black-and-white $1 Housing Works evening dress and cabbed it down, giving the crowded restaurant my own version of a red carpet entrance.  As per usual, I missed the Oscartini Open Bar and also the first half hour of the show but better to be around when things are in full swing, n’est-ce pas?

    I chose this Oscar party because it sounded a little different. It was a dual benefit for the Ali Forney Center, a group that helps homeless queer youth off the street, and Out in Television & Film, dedicated to the professional development of LGBT people working in TV and film. Look, judging by the boring pablum on the tube and celluloid these days, an infusion of queer blood into the media might get me out into the theater.

    “I’m here in town from L.A., looking to meet a boyfriend,” a guy in a suit told me at the bar, checking out a hot number who shortly thereafter tripped down the stairs. Those Oscartinis were strong!

    I can only say that being in a room full of queers when Mo’Nique’s name was announced for Precious made the night, as did the cheers for the win for cult fave Kathryn Bigelow. “Ugh, that dress!” A snazzy guy groaned at Sandra Bullock’s win. The gay boys were rooting for Helen Mirren, or even Meryl Streep, and I heartily agreed.