Sunday, the corner of Hollywood and Highland, Los Angeles. It is 2:30 p.m. I have been here for three hours. It seemed like a fun way to end my Spring Break in LA - after all, the Oscars only come once a year, and I am in Hollywood. Now, after standing in this crowd for the better part of the afternoon, it is not so fun anymore. I have forgotten my book in my friend's apartment. I can't remember the last time I ate. People are sweaty, agitated, and in need of deodorant. Nearby, an overeager 15-year-old girl is doing her best to bust my eardrums, calling to any possible celebrity as if she is a long lost relative.
"Daisy!!!! Daisy Fuentes!!! Hi Daiseeeeeeeee!!!" She waves frantically. It is not Daisy. "Ewww, look at that other woman in the pink dress. You can, like, see all her cellulite," observes the girl between bites of her Big Mac. Her awkward companion giggles through his braces. His orange shirt is so bright, I am going blind.
To my left, a group of Asian women cluster, refilling their cameras while the tiny daughter of one of the women is pushed to the front of the crowd, slowly suffocating in the surging throng of star-seekers. To my right stands a family of four from Sweden. The teenage daughter has pudgy cheeks that pouf out from her frequent sullen sighs. My hand itches to smack her. Directly in back of me is a French man in a cowboy hat and chaps who chivalrously gave me his spot in the crowd. Behind him are millions of teenagers, European couples, and 30-year-old men who think it's funny to pretend to spot someone famous and get the crowd going.
With each cheer and wave around me, another one of my ribs is pushed dangerously closer to vital organs. I am probably hemorrhaging. My stomach is eating itself. Nobody famous is due for at least another half-hour. But I persevere - I have come so far and cut through so many people. And it is better than the last place I was standing; to defend her spot, a hobbitty ginger girl was swinging her enormous birthing hips like a medieval war club, and the suntanned guy behind me was standing so close, I was afraid I was going to get pregnant.
I am in LA visiting my friend Josh, one of those rare individuals, who lives life larger than everybody else. For example, when he moved from Tufts to LA three years ago, he just happened to get an apartment 50 feet away from where the new Academy Awards theater was being built. He went to the Grammys last month because the tickets landed in his lap. Most anything can and will happen in his company. Scouting prime Oscar viewing has been our big project for this trip. But now that I'm here, with a great view of the red carpet across the street, all I can think about is what I'm missing on TV and how a huge couch and a proper meal await me half a block away.
My patience grows thinner with each idiotic outburst. The 15-year-old girl is chattering incessantly about how much she loves Ben Affleck and is interrogating security guards about the odds of his arrival. "He better come, because if he doesn't, I'll cry," she moans.
Somewhere behind me, a woman with a death wish for her child is attempting to push a stroller through the crowd. "Ladeee, there eeez no room," the French cowboy says through gritted teeth.
3:30 pm: Celebrities start arriving. Joan and Melissa have already gone into the heart of the flashbulb fiesta. The plebeians around me surge and yell, a mass of excitement and irritation. They are going to bust the gate. I am definitely hemorrhaging.
Anybody who loves fashion loves the Oscars. It is the runway of all runway shows. It is televised. There is a pre-show and a backstabbing commentary on everyone's gowns. But out in the LA sun with the Great Unwashed, after seeing some Chanel, Gucci, and Armani pass my way, I decide it is better on TV. And it is. Back in a flat full of Tufts alums, with hors d'oeuvres on my right and champagne on my left, I can fully appreciate the horror of Jennifer Lopez's hair and Gwyneth Paltrow's ensemble. Reese Witherspoon's gown looks much better under floodlights than in broad daylight. Kate Winslet's dress looks good under neither. I'll always love the Oscars. But next time I go, I'll have a ticket.
