The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bit and bytes of the week

HOLLYWOOD GOT THE MEMO. I missed the first bit of the Oscars last Sunday (I was at work for a Sunday matinee) but caught myself up quickly then settled in. Despite the expanded Academy nominating a strange and, in many cases, lesser known coterie of films for the big prizes, the show was muted and somehow… humble?

Perhaps it was the bizarre and contentious series of campaigns that crashed the chances of the most nominated film, Emilia Perez, the sense of inevitable doom at the hands of 49% of the voting population electing a dude the town had rallied against since 2015, the still smoldering ashes of LA, or the last gasp in contravention of the dominating power of the streaming platforms making movie theaters boutique experiences like browsing vinyl record shops or used book stores but the ceremony was celebratory but noncontroversial. Clocking in at four hours, it was relatively brief (in context with the bloat). The practice of having past winners laud each nominee was muted because there was just no fucking way Emma Stone was going to talk about Karla Sofía Gascón (who was both in attendance and almost wholly ignored). Given the past month, there was nearly no mention of trans issues and only the documentary about Gaza included any mention of Palestine. No overt mentions of Trump or political issues in general.

The big winner of the night—Sean Baker and Anora—feels like a groundbreaking narrative and deserved the awards yet was about an unapologetic prostitute who dreams of being married to a wealthy Russian kid instead, only to be handed the door at the end. No question, Hollywood loves their hookers given the long list of Oscar winners receiving awards for portraying them. Conan was pleasantly funny, the music was mostly pretty good, and while Morgan Freeman is sidling the Joe Biden maybe too old to talk on TV slot, he managed to honor the recently passed Gene Hackman well.

The James Bond tribute was weird and, in the wake of Amazon buying the franchise rights to the character signals its doom, seemed a bit like a strange In Memorium for 007. Doja Cat (who??) singing out of key for two full verses was painful. Upon winning Best Song for the barely memorable tuneless piece from Emilia Perez, songwriter Camille attempted to lead a singalong with the crowd which would’ve worked if something from Wicked had won. It was very odd having the voice of Nick Offerman as the offstage announcer.

Back to Anora. With five Oscars from six nominations, this was both a big middle finger to Netflix and the big studios as well as a push to recognize and laud the little guy, the independent filmmakers grinding it out in the shadow of Old Hollywood turned Tech Bro Hollywood. After all, in the larger scale, Anora has up to this point only made about $15 million which translates to less than five percent of the audience of something like Deadpool & Wolverine or Wicked. It is also interesting to note that Mikey Madison beating Demi Moore in this race is basically the plot of The Substance.

In the end, it was fine but not notable. As prom’s go, I’m pretty sure the high school prom my sister is in charge of will be much more fun without a star-studded Rolex commercial. Now, you can finally see the one movie among them all that will stand the test of time, including its intermission (which, just a title card, was better than all of Emilia Perez), The Brutalist.

CHAOS IS THE POINT. I can’t. There is a place in back in my cerebellum hectoring me to dive in and pay some of the very limited attention I have left to listen and read about the Trump’s bulldozing and trolling everyone outside of his fantasy island but I just cannot.

If the Dems really wanted to resist him, instead of yelling from the floor or holding up paddles, they would’ve organized a download to each of their phones of a loop of Biden talking about what a piece of shit he is with quips from Obama, Bill Maher, and various pundits calling him out and on cue, all lifted their phones and hit play during his speech. It would drive him nuts, Johnson couldn’t have everyone removed, and the moment would go viral in seconds.

The goal? Get him so angry and off message, he has a stroke. How do you troll a troll? Make people laugh him out of the room.

That’s resistance.

Democrats: “If Donald Trump kills us all, just remember how we waved tiny paddles with NUH-UH printed on them.” — Born Miserable

A CRYPTO RESERVE? It’s like a big room filled with air and wishes…

FIFTEEN MILES OF STAIRS. Without being specific about my workplace, it is an understatement to say that there are a lot of stairs. My gig involves a full staff on multiple floors and me making sure I’m checking in with them throughout a shift—encouraging them, helping them, making sure they have everything they need to be exemplary. They’re mostly pretty young whilst I, six decades on the planet, feel the encroaching hand of age. I tend to remind them unnecessarily about the cavernous difference between our ages rather than pretend I’m far younger than I am. Perhaps I just am amazed that I can still clock in 32,000 steps on stairs—the equivalent of fifteen miles—on a given day.

There’s a certain madness in letting your body rot while you’re still in it. A slow decay of muscle, nerve, and bone—cell by cell, molecule by molecule—until one day you wake up and the engine doesn’t turn over. It coughs and sputters, and you realize you’ve been running on fumes for longer than you’d care to admit. The great American tragedy isn’t death; it’s atrophy. Death is quick, clean, and mostly out of your hands. But losing your abilities? That’s a goddamn choice.

I’ve seen it happen. I’ve watched men—strong men, once capable of hoisting kegs and punching walls—wither into soft-bellied ghosts of themselves, shuffling through parking lots like old dogs with bad hips. They lose the fight long before they lose the war. It starts with a missed workout, then another. A skipped hike. A couch that calls like a siren song. And soon they’re carrying their weight like a drunk with a sack of bowling balls strapped to his back. The body turns on itself. A rebellion of inertia.

And let’s not kid ourselves—this is a battlefield. Every day, your body is either sharpening its weapons or surrendering its ground. You keep the machine moving, or you let it rust. The cartilage thins. The tendons stiffen. One day you’re sprinting up stairs, the next you’re winded from tying your shoes. It happens faster than you think.

This is why the real lunatics—the ones who understand what’s at stake—fight like hell to keep the beast alive. They throw iron, they run until their lungs burn, they stretch and twist and keep the goddamn joints oiled. Not because they’re chasing vanity or some delusional dream of eternal youth, but because they know the alternative is far worse. The alternative is becoming one of those human puddles, draped over a recliner, waiting for time to finish what negligence started.

The crime isn’t aging. The crime is letting it happen without a fight. You don’t have to be a marathon runner or a circus acrobat, but you do have to move. Climb. Lift. Carry. Punch something. Kick something. Sweat. Otherwise, you’re just waiting for gravity to pull you into the dirt.

There’s an old saying about sharks—that they have to keep moving or they die. That’s the human condition, too, whether we like it or not. Stop moving, and you start dying in slow motion. You watch the world get taller while you shrink. You watch people pass you on the street while your steps get smaller, shorter, weaker. Until one day, they’re pushing you in a chair, and your legs are just decorations.

And that’s the horror of it. That’s the nightmare. Because deep down, you remember when you were a goddamn animal—when you could leap, sprint, tear through the world like a force of nature. And now? Now you grunt when you stand up. You flinch when you reach too far. You’re afraid of a fall, because you don’t know if you’ll get back up.

It doesn’t have to be this way. It shouldn’t be this way. The body is a wild thing, meant to be used, pushed, tested. If you let it, it will carry you into old age with fire in its belly. But if you don’t—if you let the creeping vines of weakness wrap around you—then one day you’ll wake up and find that the muscles are gone, the joints are brittle, and the body you once knew has left without you.

And what the hell is the point of living in a body you can’t use?

Use it or lose it. Those are the options. There is no third.

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That’s the weekend, gang. It’s been a busy one so my words are sparse. You know—I’ve been busy climbing stairs. Get out there and use your stuff. Celebrate the miracle of waking up one more day in a chaotic world filled with terrors and joys. And maybe get a spa day in there cuz, hey, recharging is the only way to take those steps.