I'm holed up in my apartment. Press helicopters flying over head, while armies of limos line the streets. Even my favorite (and not so favorite) bars are closed off with ridiculous cover charges for the privilege of watching the event on their big screen TV. I guess the $200 a head figure is so you can feel special that you're drinking just a few doors and a block over from where the real celebrities are drinking (or at least the B list). Seriously, the Abbey is $200 a head. Of course, I'm told they were hanging chandeliers from the cabanas, but unless an albino midget monkey is walking around carrying one over my head while singing "Hollaback Girl," I don't care!
I can't really go anywhere (in my car anyway). The streets are venerable limo parking lots, while the sidewalks are lined with lookie loos hoping to get a blimpse of some D-list celebrity walking the red carpet into one of the myriad of celebrity after parties.
I know it's blasphemous to say, but, I'm not watching the Oscars, and I don't care who got the award for best pet wearing a tutu in a documentary.
That's right... I went there.