Myer, Grouch, astronotus ocellatus. A singing wiener, a distempered green muppet and a South American freshwater fish. While all three share the name of that naked statuette that will make the rounds tonight, I can only hope for their appearance onstage, perhaps to flip the bird at that golden mantelpiece decoration.

I marvel at my ability to withstand years of oppression and abuse upon my sanity, mercilessly doled out by The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences like a cantankerous lunch lady. Yet like some hopeless drug addict clamouring for one final fix while wasting away on the streets of an inner-city ghetto, I keep crawling back to witness and watch every year, as I throw caution to the wind and renounce any semblance of common sense.

Award shows are a funny creation. On the one hand, the whole charade smells of shameless self-promotion. In the run-up to a ceremony where an industry is supposed to be celebrating excellence in movie-making, we are faced with arse-kissing campaigns reminiscent of student politics. The well-oiled P.R. machines and studios have engaged in a masturbatory display of adulation, trying to one-up each other in the minds of the voting members. “My list of nominations is bigger than yours…”

At the same time however, the show continues to dedicate a portion of its broadcast to remembrance: one of the few highlights of each year is the annual scrolling of those who are no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet their respective makers. Even the coldest and blackest of hearts must be warmed as the well-dressed pay tribute to their fallen comrades.

Enough pre-show musing. To borrow an oft used phrase, let’s get it on!

(What follows has been pieced together from scribbles found scratched into stale slices of bread with what appears to be a rusty pair of knitting needles. Preliminary analysis shows that the author suffered from a mental breakdown.)

golden statuettes are dancing around my head….one of them started speaking to me about Marx…Albert Brooks thinks White Chicks was the bomb…James Bond is croaking to a computer animated midget with a German accent...have I waltzed into a fantastical amalgamation of technology and espionage? I swear I’ve seen the same trick done countless times before… is that roadkill atop Adam Duritz’s tête – someone call the SPCA… Strapless gowns and backless dresses, rented tuxes and overpriced suits, thick rimmed glasses and wrap-around shades (but a notable lack of Jack) – a field day for fashionistas…respectful applause for Brando - one almost expects a final slap from beyond the grave...