Wired Mesh

Why Does the White Dove Sail?

In the dangerous game of irony, the hunter can soon become the hunted. Yes, my friends, you could be sitting around watching the Oscars, and Annie Lennox is belting out that goofy Return of the King song, and you start mocking her by singing the song in a sardonically high-pitched tone, and then everyone notices that you actually know the lyrics to this song, and you have to explain that NPR is always playing while you're driving to work and how, yes, you may remember some of the words. Not that this happened to me.

More than 40 people packed into my one-bedroom apartment last night to watch the Oscars. If you don't know how unqualified my apartment is to handle that kind of crowd, just picture that 1960s fad of packing people into phone booths and you'll get the idea. By 9 p.m. every space in and around my two living room couches was filled; by 9:30 the room was rapidly developing a peculiar aroma. Andy heroically carted a second television down the mountain, Ryan scrounged up my old antenna, and the kitchen became a second viewing room (and the optimal one to be in if you wanted quick access to the seven-layer dip). Crazy as the event was, it made me feel really great to see so many of my friends gathered at my place.

But trying to manage the party meant that I only caught about two-thirds of the actual show, and a lot of what I saw involved snaggle-toothed men thanking Kiwis. It struck me as a particularly dull ceremony -- I never miss these things -- with the exception of a nice Michael Moore self-parody and the musical stylings of Jack Black and Will Ferrell. Most folks were annoyed at the Return of the King dominance, but it's hard to argue that any other movie better captured the national mood for the year, with its strange combination of triumphalism and melancholia. My only disappointment was Bill Murray's loss to Sean Penn. Penn's a powerful actor who deserved the award, but in the last couple of years I've developed a personal fondness for Murray, especially when he plays the sorrowful self-loather he crafted with Wes Anderson and perfected with young Sophia Coppola. Here's hoping -- and I promise this is the only time you'll catch me making predictions about awards -- that he can pull of another nomination for The Life Aquatic.