Thank God for the Gold Guy

I remember last year, when I was obsessing about Envelopegate and last year's Best Picture Oscar, someone actually posted to Facebook, "It would be great if y'all quit talking about the Academy Awards, m'kay?"Apparently the only acceptable topic for right-minded Americans was how bad "Cheetoh Satan" (aka Trump) is.

I responded by posting a closeup of Warren Beatty's hand as he went on stage with the wrong envelope. Go fuck yourself, m'kay?

I need Oscar. Awards season comes around at just the moment that I miss baseball so much it aches almost physically. And I knew then, as I know now, that if Trump were to be impeached or resign,* it won't be until the first quarter of 2019. While I believe in my bones that our nation installed a dangerous manchild in The White House, I believe the center will hold and besides, I cannot be angry about it all day/every day.

The movies are my happy place, and Oscar is the movies' sacrament. This time of year, there is little as dependably joyful, engrossing and therefore distracting as the race to the Academy Awards.

Right now, I am surrounded by sad. My boss hasn't been showing up at the office because his adult son is in the grips of manic/depression and Asperger's. My art director spends every day on the phone to her siblings, wondering what to do about their father's burgeoning and very expensive love affair with his con artist/caregiver, and then she reports to me on every conversation. I try to be sympathetic, but it's hard because:

1) Every conversation goes the same way. "And he's going to do what he's going to do." To which I say, "Then you have to involve the authorities." And she says, "But the police won't do anything." And I say, "Not the police, a judge. Get him declared incompetent. Talk to a lawyer." Blah blah blah. I know she's just working it through, and I should be more patient, except ...

2) This woman is not especially empathethic. I remember asking her advice when my friend Mindy was coming to grips with her mother being in hospice. My coworker said, "I'd ask her what she gets out of talking about this when she can't change it." So it's everything in me not to ask her what she gets out of talking about this when she refuses to change it.

3) I still see signs that we are on the verge of losing our jobs, and there are things we could be doing together to prepare, and she refuses. She tells me to stop worrying about it. Regarding this -- you know, something she could actually be working on -- it seems, my worry is futile.

Since, with open seating, we sit on top of one another, it's impossible for me not to affected by my boss and my art director. So, when I get away from the office, I just want to decompress. To withdraw. To enjoy.

To go to the movies. And at Oscar time, the best movies are in theaters. So at Oscar time, this fat ass is in a seat.

*And I still think he will be impeached or resign.