HITS Daily Double
Sunday’s 15-hour journey through Oscar’s heart of darkness has helped completely erode my love for the smell of celebrity napalm in the morning.


Our Celebrity-Hounding Correspondent Has A Moment Of Clarity
Hi, my name is Dave and I'm an entertainment journalist (Insert "Hi, Dave" here). I am lucky—make that honored—to have my job and have never taken for granted how incredibly blessed I am. However, after nine years on the front lines in the battle for the ultimate celebrity sound byte, I have accrued my share of battle scars.

That said, Sunday's 15-hour journey through Oscar's heart of darkness has helped completely erode my love for the smell of celebrity napalm in the morning. Yes, I have traveled upriver in my mind, where I inhabit a private world that shelters me from the reality that has become so unrealistically absurd. The horror.

We have become a culture so incredibly obsessed with celebrity that we can no longer distinguish the factors that contribute to that celebrity. We've totally obliterated the difference between renown and notoriety. We will offer 15 minutes of fame to anyone who chooses to exploit our current obsession—no matter what the circumstances—and then we'll tag on an extra 10 for good measure.

Oh, yeah, the Oscars. After six "pre-show" hours of filing live (well, actually live-to-tape) televised reports about the fans, the flower arrangers and the art director of the Governor's Ball ("I just feel it inside me," he said, gently caressing the back of my faux tuxedo), I took the coveted "post-show" position outside the Shrine Auditorium.

It was there that I was to extract meaningful, enlightening, earth-changing comments from A-list celebrities—as long as they were under a minute forty-five (1:30 is ideal).

So there I was, next to Roger Ebert, Tony Potts of "Access Hollywood," Mark McEwen of "CBS This Morning," Mark Steinus from "ET," Joel Siegel of "Good Morning America" and the gay dude from an L.A. station who insists he's married. From 9 p.m. to 10:30, the few celebrities who did meander by chose to ignore us. Then, at 10:35, there was a huge commotion; we all assumed our positions ready to pounce. A figure emerged. He was diminutive in physical stature, but on the scale of celebrity pursuit, he was a giant prize. We began yelling. But Judge Lance Ito chose to ignore us. Judge fucking Lance fucking Ito. I looked at my colleagues. At least ET didn't get him.

I'm sorry, I can no longer comment on any Oscar-related fashion. I can no longer contemplate the various submeanings of Russell Crowe's demeanor. I can no longer engage in meaningful discourse on the lack of diversity, ethnicity, elasticity or Felicity in this grand shrine of celebrity we have erected. I am done, cooked, over. Stick a fork in me and turn on CNN International…please. When the water-cooler chatter turns to Chechnya, or god forbid, Macedonia, then I'll wet my ample beak. Until then, please discuss society's seemingly important headliners and legends with someone more mentally and emotionally prepared to respond in a cogent and competent manner. Thank you.