Don't really care anymore. I mean, professionally, I have to "care," since it's prime feed for the weekly entertainment magazine that cuts my checks. But I don't, personally, care...not the way I used to when I was in my early 20s, staying up late and watching all the Billy Crystal-shepherded bidness go down, giddy with the idea that at some point I could be there, accepting my own statuette. I know better now. (It may still happen, but giving a toss over what happens during the Oscars won't get me there any faster.)
Maybe I'm just jaded. Or, more likely, bored. Because it is still, regardless of what they change each year, a horribly programmed show, far too beholden to tradition to be genuinely interesting and far too reliant on the attendance of the beautiful people to be remotely real.
So, until I or someone I know gets nominated, I'm not gonna care. (Sorta came close this year; what with one of my bosses mis-IDed as Eric Roth because he was sitting next to his husband, Tony Kushner, nominated for cowriting Munich. But I've never met Tony, so doesn't count.)
Don't ask, don't care. Too busy nursing this stupid cold I got from one of my offspring in lieu of gratitude for caring for them solo (while my wife went skiing). Too busy trying not to cough an eyeball out.
Shit. Okay, nobody move.