Oh, Oscar! Inspire me. Please. You owe me after Sunday night.
I refuse to restrain my inner Ms. Snippy. She yearns to be free. She begs for release. And who I am I to tell her no? I won't I won't I won't. Especially after that boring Ambien-equivalent Oscar program last night. It seemed endless. Positively. And as dull as a sack of dirt. Oh. Yes. A heavy sack, indeed.
Where were the movie clips? The Oscar is ? last time I checked - a movie award. I want to see clips. And what was up with the silly, time-wasting presentation of the acting awards by five former winners? And Hugh Jackman? Please. I want Jon Stewart. I want Steven Colbert.
But enough. On to the clothes. (Most of them were snore-inducing as well. Alas.)
Actually, now that I think about it, there were only two gowns I consider worthy of mention.
Marisa Tomei's pleated, architectural Versace. Astounding. Beautiful. Sexy. This is the way to bare a shoulder. Absolutely.
Beyonce's gown has been the object of much derision. Seems some fashionistas decry it as worthy only of draping one's windows. I disagree. Totally. I love the leaf print and its reference to the 1940s. I love the bodice. I love the 1950s sexy chanteuse silhouette.
And, by the way, just so you know: I do not want to see any more headlines that tout the revival of old Hollywood glamour. So overused. So worn out. So done. No more. News outlets, you should know better. For shame.