Monday, March 24, 2003
Last night, just before the Academy Awards ceremony began, my head started to ache and the first pangs of a sore throat set in. I thought, I hoped, it was only allergies (it's pollen grand central down here). But the sore throat got worse and kept me awake much of the night. This morning my voice is almost gone. So, it would seem I'm sick. Never mind that I don't have time to be sick. I'm sick anyway.
The Academy Awards. A very peculiar 75th anniversary, indeed. I wouldn't say the tone of the ceremony was less glitzy or subdued or somber, just odd. Steve Martin did his best, given the situation. Sean Connery's suit was impeccable. But I can't say that I'm happy to see so much attention lavished on Chicago (is this supposed to be atonement for not showing more attention to the far more deserving Moulin Rouge?), and I'm astounded at the way Gangs of New York and Martin Scorcese were shut out entirely. I do applaud Michael Moore (Bowling for Columbine) and his fellow documentarians for his statements regarding Bush and the war. Ficticious election results, indeed. It was good to see Peter O'Toole.
Damn, my throat hurts.
I think I may go back to bed, which is entirely idiotic.
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