"pain, marty? try prison."

i must have walked my way into the 22nd century this weekend. i virtually walked straight into march without looking. march! oh god, the joy. you can virtually smell the sunblock on the horzion.

as far as i'm concerned, february was better than january and march will be better still. not because i'm an optimist, or because i think history only moves in one direction -- although i sort of am and i sort of do -- but because, goddamn it, how could it be much worse? especially as the clothes get thinner and the birds return and people start painting their toes again and you know that this is only the beginning, spring will NOT STOP THERE, it will KEEP GOING until it reaches summer and new york city won't miss the gates anymore because it will have sunshine.

but for now, i'm stuck on february 28, a strange day, and it's blizzarding outside again and the fading glow of oscar provides all my vitamin D. i watched with my friend shira, who has cable and an impressively nice room, and we ate pizza and drank beer and gaped at beyonce's hideous eye-makeup like good americans. no surprises really, in fashion or in the ceremony. no bitter disappointments either. i cheered loudest for charlie kaufman.

i will spare you my martin scorcese rant; suffice it to say, even though i thought the aviator was a fine film, i was aggressively pleased marty didn't walk off with the trophy that mattered. giving him an oscar would only serve as positive reinforcement of his recent and nauseating effort to make Spectacles rather than films. it wouldn't change the fact that he was unjustly overlooked, more than once, many years ago. but join the club, marty. if it's good enough for hitchcock, it's good enough for you.