Oscar Weekend w/ Sebastian and Charlie: A Hate Story (Part 2)

Your intrepid – or, insipid and insane – blogger has stopped drinking again. Well, in any event, he hasn’t had a drink since Friday night’s debauch with DB which he described in the previous entry. Sadly, it is not the only withdraw he has had to withstand this weekend, and, apparently, these multiple shocks to his system have resulted in the manifestation of multiple psychopathies including writing about himself in the third person and the re-emergence of his multiple, the English and erudite and snarkily cruel, Sebastian (CLICK HERE to read about Sebastian’s first appearance). (He’s a Brit, so he puts the periods outside the parentheses).

Well, I watched the Oscars last night.I’m house-sitting at a place with HBO, so, it was a struggle to decide because there was my boyfriend, Russell Tovey, on HBO in Looking. And, his play just closed in England and he’d Tweeted out another shot of himself in his underwear and  . . . well, LOOK:

Tovey, Russell Pass Instagram

I mean, you can see why I was torn? But, I watched the Oscars.

I had to; there was going to be a 75th Anniversary Tribute to Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz at which Joey Luft was going to join his sisters, Lorna Luft and Liza Minnelli, and, I mean, who in the world wouldn’t want to see that? See it, I did. I thought Pink singing Over The Rainbow was – well, the thing is, I thought it was incredibly sincere and deeply felt, but, you just don’t breathe between syllables of words and in the middle of phrases that are all one thought. You just don’t. That said, I was weeping – not just a little – but, rather, out of control heaving. And then came a text from DB. One word: “Crying?”

ENOUGH. This is Sebastian. DB is hardly psychic. It was the sob heard round the world as every aging bender, poofter and queen dissolved predictably when the original over-the-rainbow role-model of psychotic vulnerability and drug addiction was feted by the homo-mafia run film industry by trotting out her trio of troubled progeny, clearly so manic and maladjusted they weren’t even allowed ON THE STAGE, but, instead, safely displayed – out of microphone range – in all their derangement in the audience. When they were asked to stand up, the camera quickly cut away before the worldwide audience bore witness to the blue-haired (and not in the dignified way) one – dressed in a sheath dyed to match the streak in her hair, an outfit seemingly designed by the raised-from-the-dead Halston, meant to double as a body-bag when she dropped dead from cocaine overdose at the after-party.

Stop it. This is why I don’t like to let him out. English people can be so cruel. I promised myself as I watched and after that I would NOT be mean and snarky and vitriolic. And then, John Travolta came on and introduced Idina Menzel. Or, as he called her, Adele Dazim. WTF?

It was too much for me, even when I was sober. Or, especially when I was sober? I IMMEDIATELY Tweeted: “Maybe #JohnTravolta isn’t gay if he can’t even say #IdinaMenzel”

I thought it was pretty funny. It was RT-ed by a few people. Until it was stolen by a New York actor type without attribution and suddenly RT-ed by all sorts of out-of-my-league-ish people. Which pissed me off and made me sad. But, it didn’t make me drink. And, I also didn’t feel too badly about having said it as Twitter exploded with New York-y type musical theatre diva-folk going wild about the Travoltalk pronunciation. Betty Buckley, Laura Benanti, Audra McDonald, etc. So. There. I forgive myself.

OH FUCK FORGIVENESS. Sebastian here again. Stop with the git-fairy, aspirational toff shite. He’s a total mess since Saturday. He knew that the going was coming. Enlistments only last so long. Then people move on. It came. The ending. It wasn’t as if there was any commitment other than temporary comfort. So, now he’s left with a picture, finally, and a name he has promised never to say out loud – at least they finally shared the truth – and one more sad story only he and one other person knows, along with a collection of texts and emails, the syntax and spelling and grammar of which alone should make him weep. And this all comes of having spent too much of his youth wanting to be like Judy and too much of his adulthood following the likes of Adele Dazim. No more ballads, Charles. Get a grip. Or, start drinking again. Or, for fuck’s sake, throw out the Starbucks cup he drank from Saturday that you’re saving and go out and FIND someone like Russell Tovey – you know, WHO IS NOT ASKING TO BE SAVED AND IS ACTUALLY ABLE TO LOVE OUT LOUD?

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