Doing the Right Thing at the Wrong Time

I make it a habit not to patronize establishments with poor lighting. And the notion of being able to stock up on lingerie and motor oil in one fell (shopping) swoop has has always struck me as the opposite of desirable. Moreover, as much as I love saving a buck, I will happily pay a premium to shop in spaces that elevate rather than depress my zest for life. So you can take my word for it when I tell you that I am no fan of Walmart. 

But following the beat down the big box retailer has been taking for doing the right thing at the wrong time, I kinda' feel bad for them. 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/21/virginia-parents-walmart-biracial-daughters_n_3313143.html

It all began when a Virginia man took his three daughters to their neighborhood Walmart to cash a check, before picking up his wife (the girls' mother) at a separate location, then driving home to find a police officer waiting for them outside their Prince William County home. According to the dad, Joseph, (who wishes to keep his last name private) the officer said he'd been sent by Walmart security "to make sure that the children you have are your own." 

Joseph's wife, Keana, described her initial response to the inquiry as "dumbfounded" when speaking to a FOX 5-News reporter after the fact. Adding, "I sat there for a minute and I thought, 'Did he just ask us if these were our kids knowing what we went through to have our children?' "

Baring the cop's ignorance of such intimate details and his apparent lack of insight on whether or not couples who have  surmounted fertility challenges (or whatever may have been the impediment to Joseph and Keana starting their little family) ought to be above suspicion when harming minors is at issue-- the policeman who drew the short straw on this awkward assignment did have one thing going for him. A winning personality. Or, as Joseph said he (the cop) asked some very difficult questions "very sincerely." Which is probably the only reason this incident didn't escalate and lead to an arrest, followed by a "Beer Summit" at the White House with President Obama presiding...

http://thegailyplanet.wordpress.com//?s=henry&search=Go

...because Mama Bear was not taking any crap without asking a few questions of her own. 

After she and her hubby showed the officer their ID, and their daughters confirmed that the gobsmacked couple were in fact Mommy and Daddy, Keana called Walmart to demand an explanation. The answer "that a customer was concerned because they saw the children with your husband and he didn't think that they fit," only inspired Keana to press for clarification. "What do you mean by they don't fit?," she asked. "I was trying to get her to say it. And she says, 'Well, they just don't match up'."

Well, I'll just cut to the chase and tell those of you not familiar with the story that Keana is black, Joseph is white and their little girls are brown. 

Why a Walmart shopper might have called attention to Joseph and his daughters on a family outing is anyone's guess. As is the shopper-in-question's motivation for expressing his "alarm" over the threesome to Walmart security. Potential answers cover a gamut that ranges from good ole' xenophobia, to hyper-vigilance-bordering-on-paranoia thanks to a 24-hour news cycle that pedals the notion that we are all straddling a razor's edge between death and destruction at any given moment. Perhaps a well-meaning stranger had Ariel Castro on the brain and thought he (the stranger, not Castro) was preventing the potential abduction and decade-long incarceration of three more little girls. Or, maybe some good samaritan just acted on a gut reaction and chose to alert someone charged with protecting the public. 

Hell, I was actually pleased that it was a man (according to the Walmart staffer who spoke with Keana) who pulled the trigger on the whole shebang-- as women generally get the lion’s share of credit for nurturing and protecting children.

Hindsight being what it is, we all know it was a hideously bad call.  But when it comes to looking out for the most vulnerable of us, can society really afford the alternative? Are we prepared to look the other way as we debate the political correctness of possibly offending our neighbors? And, most critically, do we really want to abdicate the responsibility for distinguishing the good guys from the bad guys to a corporation with notoriously bad policies as they pertain to employee pay and benefits?

I regret that Joseph was an object of suspicion when he did nothing wrong. I'm sorry his little tykes had witness the two most important authority figures in their young lives being questioned by an even higher authority. And if I didn't have such an aversion to Walmart, I would actually be sorry that Keana had to forfeit the joy of ever hearing "Attention: Walmart Shoppers!" again. (According to FOX 5 News, the distraught mom said she would "never shop at a Walmart again." Which to me is a silver lining, but to each his own I suppose...)

If Facebook, Twitter and chat rooms are any indication of where America stands on the topic, my thinking puts me in the minority. Which is neither here nor there. But following are three examples of where the conversation is going, as well as my responses to each.

1.  "Why is the state of Virginia going backwards?," asked one commenter at huffingtonpost.com. "This father's rights were clearly violated. What was the probable cause?" 

Probable cause? 

Seriously?!

Unless Walmart is lucky enough to have police academy graduates moonlighting as security guards at their superstores, I think this standard might be a tad lofty. 

The security guard was merely the messenger: telegraphing information from one eye witness to the police, who then acted upon what they were told. Is no one else proud of the rapid response on the part of law enforcement and the quick-thinking bystander who likely recorded Joseph's license plate number to help track him down? Sure, the person-of-suspicion wound up being related to the kids; but in a world where abusive mothers, fathers,  football coaches and members of the clergy run roughshod over the innocence, integrity and dignity of children day in and day out, I am happy that somebody has their eyes peeled for OPK (Other People's Kids). And until things change for the better, I don't think anyone is entitled to a free pass where the welfare of a child is at stake. 

2.  "It's just sad," said one woman on Facebook. "I didn't grow up like this... my FRIENDS didn't grow up like this... to be honest, I never saw any kind of racism myself until I was an adult."

I have two observation on this post. First, has the writer reached the age of reason? And, if so, where did she and her friends grow up because I'd like to move there.

Tangentially, even if one were lucky enough never to have been victimized by racism, I'm afraid bearing witness to it is inescapable because racism is pervasive. Which begs the question of whether what this case of Who's Your Daddy was even racist to begin with? From what little I know, I'd have to argue no.

Short-sighted? Perhaps.

Living la vida Leave it to Beaver in the Age of Obama? Sure.

But racist? I am having trouble making that leap.

In fact, given America's checkered past on race relations I'd have to say that what happened in the parking lot was the antithesis of racism. Ditto if the disparity in mass-media reporting on missing and exploited children, owing to race, is any barometer of how far we still have to go when it comes to equal protection for all demographics. So when the (alleged) damsels in distress are brown, and there is no breakdown in police protocol to ensure the children's well-being, I consider that a plus. For that matter-- big-up to the dude who saw something and said something to somebody who could actually do something. That is my definition of brotherly love.

3.  Finally, from Twitter came an ironic, "Welcome to post-racial America."

But what could be more post-racial than a white man not being granted the presumption of innocence in America merely because of his color? Yes, having a black president of the United States is a close second, but I am encouraged by the fact that Walmart did what they believed to be in the interest of three children of color-- even if it meant inconveniencing a white man who happened to be their father. Can you imagine the outcome were Daddy-O not the good guy in this story, and managed to kidnap three innocents in broad daylight because no bystander had the heart or mind to say something when their instincts prevailed?

Of course, the elephant in the room is race.

Despite the rise in multiracial families due to interracial marriages and cross-racial adoptions, and a heightened awareness of what it means to be a modern family in 2013 (thanks in part to states like Virginia which lead the nation in marriages between blacks and whites) we evidently have have not reached the promise land. And while I am sympathetic to the uphill battle families at the vanguard of this movement are facing, there must be room for discussion if the alternative is no discussion at all.

 I say this in solidarity with any mother who has ever had her parentage called into question because her skin color is not identical to that of the child for whom her heart beats-- whether through the miracle of adoption or birth. I say it as the auntie of a nephew (whose father is black and mother is white) who asked his grandmother "Why do people treat me better when they think I'm white?," when he was just 12-years-old and developing his perspectives on race and identity. And I say it with respect and admiration for women like Thien-Kim (AKA Kim): a woman who was so fed up with the stares and inappropriate questions she's had to field since bringing her Hapa (Vietnamese-American and African-American) babies into the world that she started a blog called "I'm Not the Nanny".

http://www.imnotthenanny.com/

Kim's blog is as brilliant as its title. And she has introduced me to a community where questions I'd never dare raise are asked and answered for me. Stuff like whether or not it's OK to ask if someone's kids are adopted:

http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2012/02/it-okay-to-ask-if-someones-kids-are.html

 Or what not to say to the parent of a biracial child:

http://www.imnotthenanny.com/2012/02/what-not-to-say-to-parent-of-biracial.html

 I also discovered a wonderful guide for parents raising multiracial children called "Does Anybody Else Look Like Me".

http://www.amazon.com/Does-Anybody-Else-Look-Like/dp/0738209503/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369415349&sr=1-1&keywords=does+anybody+else+look+like+me+a+parent%27s+guide+to+raising+multiracial+children

And I don’t even have any kids!

But I am grateful for the opportunity to dialogue with anybody who can broaden my horizons without being shamed into silence. Likewise, I am open to questions, and firmly believe that the only stupid ones are those that go unasked. One of the wisest I’ve ever heard came from a young charge I used to babysit when working as an au pair during a college semester abroad in Paris. Julie was seated in my lap, caressing my hand absentmindedly (or so I thought) as I was telling her a bedtime story one night when she suddenly looked up at me and asked “...êtes-vous marron partout?” (Are you brown everywhere?) When I answered yes, her already big blue eyes widened considerably as it dawned on her that we were simultaneously different and alike. 

Of course, Julie was only six-years-old when she had her eureka moment, but wouldn’t it be cool if we could somehow keep the conversation going from the cradle to grave-- as long as our intent was pure and we exercised judgement when asking in front of the children? (Which, according to Kristen at "Rage Against the Minivan" (see link above) is thoroughly uncool.)

At the risk of getting tarred and feathered by my multi-culti friends and family, I must  give a shout-out to the Walmart shopper for looking out for the little peeps among us. Big ups to the policeman who managed to very sincerely ask some seriously tough questions. And thank you, Walmart, for sounding the alarm. If you are guilty of anything, it is of holding up a mirror that shows us who we are as a society. If we don’t like the reflection we have to fix ourselves, not the looking glass.

In the meantime, y’all might want to consider paging Dr. John, STAT! (Sooner Than Already There)I think his song “Right Place Wrong Time” would be a kick-ass anthem for Walmart going forward, and the good doctor’s mug would be a vast improvement over that unimaginative smiley face currently used in your advertising campaign. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT4RainY-lY

Oh... and while you're at it, why not go hog wild and upgrade the lighting in your stores too? People might still try holding you accountable for that which is neither your fault nor your responsibility... but at least they'd have a shot at looking good while doing so.

Don't Cry for Blue, Michiganders

It takes a genius to transcend any given arena. Only a supernova can make us stop in our tracks, look up and take note of something happening outside of our usual orbits and captivate our imaginations with the kind of talent and facility that even those who understand the genius's métier might never be able to parse and explain.

My knowledge of classical music was largely informed by the soundtracks of Looney Tunes cartoons, for example, but hearing Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D major, Aria, (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2j-frfK-yg) makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I know nothing about boxing, but watching any footage of a fleet-footed Muhammad Ali in his prime still renders me weak in the knees. And I was the undisputed class clown when taking ballet lessons as a kid, but the first time I saw Alessandra Ferri die in the final scene of Romeo and Juliet, I understood what it meant to witness the divine. 

I felt the same way when watching the NCAA's Basketball Finals on Monday night. Which is saying a lot given my history of only watching sports when forced to: as in those times I've turned on my TV at 7:00 on a Sunday night, only to find that 60 Minutes has been preempted by some NFL broadcast. Again. But after seeing Michigan and Louisville in action, I now consider myself a sport (singular designation intended) fan!

First a little disclosure: the only reason I tuned in to watch the championship game was because I'd hoped to catch a glimpse of my husband, Paul, in the stands. He is a Michigan Man from a long line of Wolverines, and fiercely loyal to his pack. When he left our home for the Georgia Dome, the pep in his step was so pronounced that he may as well have been marching to "The Victors"-- which John Philip Sousa called "the greatest college fight song ever written."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnkOkraJXK4

Chances are the University of Michigan's fight song had been looping in Paul's brain since the start of March Madness. And heaven knows I-- who could not tell you if my own alma mater, Wesleyan, even had a fight song-- haven't been able to get the snappy tune out of my head for the past week:

Hail! to the victors valiant

Hail! to the conqu'ring heroes

Hail! Hail! to Michigan

The leaders and the best! 

The crisp tempo of the music and lyrics are as bold, bright and optimistic as the maize and blue pullover Paul wore to the game in support of his peeps, but even these appurtenances paled in comparison to his happy anticipation of what was surely to come: a repeat of what we saw at the Dome on Saturday night when Michigan beat Syracuse in the Final Four and advanced to the Finals. 

Add to this brew the youngest Michigander in the family-- my niece Alba, who's in the final stretch of her freshman year in Ann Arbor-- and my extended family had all the incentive we needed to get into the  school spirit as we texted "GO BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" to one another from the opening tip-off right through the nail-biter of a finish.

And yet for all that pre-game joy and camaraderie, if you watched the game it probably won't come as a surprise to learn that my shiny happy people transformed into gloomy grumpy Guses by the time the clock struck 12. The first shot rang out just shy of midnight when one of my cousin's (who shall remain nameless due to her unsportsmanlike conduct, and who is also wedded to a Michigan Man) sent out an email blast asking "Does anyone think the Kentucky team is actually going to class? Or got over a 500 on their SATs?" Next, Paul came home looking nothing like the valiant victor I'd kissed goodbye as he went into battle just a few hours prior. The following morning, I received a commiserative :(... emoticon from my cousin Lori. And I've lost track of the condolence tweets and Facebook posts I've gotten from well-meaning friends and family since then.

To which I say: Don't cry for me Argentina!... Didn't y'all see what I saw?



The whole time I watched the Wolverines play the Cards, I had to remind myself that their poise under pressure belied their youth. I can't recall the last time I've seen anyone manage opposing emotions like enthusiasm and control with such grace-- never mind boys who were barely out of their teens. The fast pace of the game made it difficult for me to keep my eye on the ball, and yet each and every player managed to keep his head in spite of the ridiculously high stakes. These ballers were as smart, focused, intense, relentless and selfless as any profession athlete I've ever seen at the top of his or her game. Their intensity never flagged. Their passion was not predicated on a paycheck. (Which is not to say that I think the practice of everyone but the student athlete getting to reap huge financial benefits from college basketball is anything short of egregious.) And they actually appeared to be having fun.



I know soccer has a reputation for being the beautiful game, but very few things are as pretty as what I saw on Monday night.



Getting to watch both teams demonstrate such singular commitment to a common goal was a privilege. So much so, that by the time Louisville defeated Michigan, 82-76, all I could think was All hail the (cardinal) red, black, white and Blue: because every player showed tremendous mettle and left nothing on the floor.



Of course, highly-competitive athletes being who they are, I know that words praising any job well done are a cold comfort absent the coveted prize. I'm also aware that spouting platitudes like It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game to any Michigan fans who are still licking their wounds would be a sure-fire way wind up on the injured list-- so I'll zip it for now. But I hope the Wolverines won't overlook all they've accomplished in their young lives. And I pray somebody will remind them that there is no shame in trying and failing-- only in not trying because we fear the challenge (as my Michigan Man taught me many moons ago).



But for every clear-eyed spectator who saw what I saw on Monday night-- can I get a witness?!

How cool was it to transcend the ordinary as we watched genius soar?



How amazing was it to visit a galaxy where we got to see scores of shooting stars for three hours straight?



And how awesome was it to look on as old-school pros like Charles Barkley, John Beilein and Rick Pitino (who have been-there/done-everything-there-is-to-do-and-see in the game of basketball) lost their minds and got tongue-tied when trying to explain the inexplicable?



To which I say: Congratulations, Louisville! That was one hell of a game.



And Michigan, you've done the damn near-impossible and made a fan out of me. I'm proud of you.

GO BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Will the Real Rosa Parks Please Stand Up

Four months after being released from prison in South Africa, Nelson Mandela toured the United States-- where welcoming committees were organized for each leg of his journey. One of my (typically unflappable) friends, Nasser, was lucky enough to find himself among the select few assigned to greet the human rights hero when he visited Boston, and over 20 years later Nasser still recalls “feeling like a kid who got to meet Superman in person!” when shaking Mandela’s hand for the first time.

But the man who embodied Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s conviction that "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice” had to wait until his flight touched  down at Metro Airport in Detroit before getting to meet his hero face-to-face.

The moment he emerged from the plane in Michigan, Mandela took in the gathering of politicians, dignitaries and VIP's waiting for him on the tarmac as he sought out the object of his admiration and affection. And then he spotted the petite woman seated in a wheelchair. Softy chanting her name: "Ro-sa Parks! Ro-sa Parks! Ro-sa Parks!"-- R’s trilling and tears rolling down his cheeks-- Mandela kept up the mantra until he reached her side, held her in his arms and confided, "You sustained me while I was in prison all those years."

Before hearing Douglas Brinkley tell this story at a book signing for his biography, Rosa Parks: A Life, 12 years ago, I’d always thought of his subject as a dignified little lady whose contribution to the struggle for civil rights began and ended the day she was simply too tired to give up her seat to a white man on a bus in Alabama. 

I mistook Parks’s demure composure and diminutive frame for passiveness. I’d never contextualized the courage required for a black woman to stand up to a known bully-of-a-bus driver, James F. Blake, when he warned: "Y'all better make it easy on yourselves and let me have those seats.. if you don't stand up, I'm going to have to call the police and have you arrested." And I certainly never contemplated how swift and harsh the punishment might have been for Parks, not only to stand her ground that day, but to reply "You may do that,” to Blake, even as three other black passengers proximate to her immediately vacated their seats. 

Such heroism cannot be overstated: particularly in an era when racism was institutionalized, retaliation for perceived slights (on the parts of blacks against whites) could manifest in punishments that ranged from harassment to lynchings, and law enforcement and the Ku Klux Klan were virtually indistinguishable entities in the Deep South. And yet, thanks to a series of holes in my education (the most stunning being the time my 10th grade American History teacher skipped an entire chapter, entitled Slavery-- which, sadly, encompassed the complete history of people of African descent in the United States and their contributions to society, according to the writers of this particular text book), and one iconic portrait of Parks that made her look like more of a bystander to history than one who actually shaped it, I was oblivious to her worldwide prominence as a mentor and comrade to giants of the human rights struggle. 

According to the recently-published biography, "The Rebellious Life of Mrs. Rosa Parks" by Jeanne Theoharis, Parks's insistence upon fair play began in early childhood. Once reprimanded her for being "too high spirited" after she'd threatened a white boy with a brick because he'd taunted her-- Parks's grandmother openly feared that Rosa would be dead before she reached the age of 20; to which the little girl replied, "I would rather be lynched than run over by them." As a young woman, part of her attraction to Raymond Parks-- who she eventually married-- was because he was a civil rights activist who carried a gun and, according to Rosa, "refused to be intimidated by white people." And before sparking the Montgomery Bus Boycott that lasted 381 days, crippled the city's mass-transit system and resulted in a Supreme Court decision ordering Montgomery to integrate it's buses, Parks was secretary of her local NAACP chapter.

Given that backdrop, it's no wonder that warriors, like Mandela, looked up to the former seamstress who stood only 5’3” tall. But judging from the bronze statue of Parks that was recently unveiled in Statuary Hall at the Capitol Building in Washington, I fear that she may be remembered as a woman more willing to wait on change than initiate it.

Though the bronze statue stands nine feet tall and weighs 2700 pounds, Parks has been immortalized in a seated position which troubles me for many reasons. For starters, the pose diminishes her stature, relative to those of her peers throughout the Hall, when one might argue that she stood head and shoulders above all others where bravery and nobility were concerned. There's also the mythology of Parks having been too tired to give up her seat on that December day in 1955. In my mind, the statue literally cements a common misconception within the national psyche, in spite of Parks's having said, "I was not physically tired, or no more tired than I usually was at the end of a working day... No, the only tired I was was tired of giving in." 

As for the expression of resignation on Park's face, it substantiates Theoharis's claim that Parks's legacy has been sugarcoated to emphasize her “quiet, humble and soft-spoken” nature to the exclusion “of her lifelong history of activism and anger at American injustice.” Ditto where her ladylike posture, crossed ankles and averted gaze are concerned. As for the little purse perched upon her lap-- that kooky touch strikes me as more befitting a statue of the Queen of England than that of a woman who could not have come into this world more disadvantaged and disenfranchised than a black girl born in Tuskegee, Alabama 50 years after the Emancipation Proclamation was issued.

I don't see the justice in having Mrs. Parks's sweet visage look upon that of Jefferson Davis's (who is positioned directly opposite her in the Hall) for perpetuity, either-- with his chin-up/shoulders-back posture as if he were some paragon of bravery, nobility and morality when, in fact, he was president of the Confederacy during the Civil War. And how ironic that the woman who helped make this nation live up to its credo, that all men are created equal, should appear grounded by the rock from which she rises.

For all my nitpicking, there is no doubt in my mind that the statue of Rosa Parks-- designed by Robert Firmin and sculptured by Eugene Daub-- was rendered with tremendous love and respect. Firmin has stated that his decision not to portray Parks sitting on a bus seat was deliberate because, “that choice would trivialize things.” Adding, “it’s about her, not about a bus.”

But the more I look at the statue, the more certain I am that this is really about us. It's about our failure to properly assess the true measure of a mighty heart. It's about our ignorance of every American's history in the United States. It's about a double-standard: that makes us inclined to elevate those who turn the other cheek when attacked... especially if they are female or people of color... and lionize those who kick ass when we perceive a threat to the nation's freedom and liberty. And it's about our inability to  embrace all facets of the Mother of the Civil Rights Movements.

As Jesse Jackson said during last week's unveiling, “She was not a meek woman... she meant to make something happen.”

And given the price she paid for all our sakes, perhaps the least we can do in return is put aside any one-dimensional ideas about this American icon, and finally allow the real Rosa Parks to stand up.

From Jazz Hands to Faux Pas

Theatre and film are two of my biggest passions, so when I heard that Neil Meron and Craig Zadan would be producing the 2013 Academy Awards, I figured they'd deliver the razzle dazzle like nobody's business. 

Partners at Storyline Entertainment, the executive producers brought shows like Chicago and Hairspray from the stage to the silver screen. While their most recent foray in television, Smash, reaffirmed a talent for bridging the gap between Broadway and Hollywood.

 I believe that the best art, like the best fashion, can result from combining high and low. In fact, shows like Chicago-- a smart social commentary about the sacred, the profane and all that jazz-- are the best argument for mixing things up. Which is why I was over the moon when I found out that Seth McFarlane would be hosting the Oscars. 

Between his creation of Stewie, the smart-mouthed toddler with an upper-crust British accent on the animated TV series Family Guy and Ted, last year's blockbuster about a teddy bear with the mouth of a stevedore, I figured Sunday would be a night to remember. So much so, that I emailed my sister-in-law Kim (a fellow-Ted fanatic) the picture below; with a pre-Oscar greeting saying, "Chillax, and Enjoy the Show!"

I hope she's still speaking to me.

The first sign that something was off came when Kristin Chenoweth appeared on the red carpet to interview the stars.

The Tony Award winning singer and actress struck me as an unorthodox choice because in spite of having guest-starred on TV shows like Sesame Street and Glee in recent years, her most rabid fans know her from hits like You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown and Wicked on Broadway-- where she is an undisputed darling. But as the hour wore on and Chenoweth's inability to curb her enthusiasm became more and more apparent-- it became clear to me that what works on the boards had obviously been lost in translation on the small screen.

Between the rising pitch of her voice and the bulging veins in her neck, I feared the perky little actress was on the brink of having an aneurysm every time she started raving about some "AAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZING!!!" gown...

Or marveling over how "short" she was in comparison to the assorted glitterati.

At 4'11', it strains credulity to imagine that Chenoweth never noticed she was on the petite side of the spectrum until standing next to Hugh Jackman on Sunday night. But... whatever. If you've ever had the misfortune of being held captive by a precocious seven-year-old telling one-too-many knock-knock jokes, or lecturing you on the evolution of dinosaurs; you'll have a good idea of what it was like watching Chenoweth go on and on, with no hook in sight.   

The dynamo went from being adorable to unbearable rather rapidly. But, she's so damned cute that I felt like a bitch for even harboring a critical thought. 

Until the Flying Nun came along, and said with her eyes what I was thinking all along:

"If this is New York's idea of payback for all the times sub-par Hollywood starlets were given lead roles on Broadway, to the exclusion of countless theatre actresses who could actually sing, dance and act live, we get it! We swear it'll never happen again. In fact, if you make Chenoweth disappear right now, we'll dispatch a private jet to bring Scarlett Johansson back to Los Angeles the second the curtain comes down on tonight's performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on the Great White Way. Deal?"

As manic as things were outside, things only got worse when McFarlane took the stage-- where he appeared stiff, awkward and unsure of what a frat boy like himself was doing in a nice place like the Dolby Theatre... not to mention hosting the entire shebang.

To make matters worse, his affect was completely flat. But I'd be willing to give him a pass on that score, since chances are the universe lacked enough energy to power McFarlane and Chenoweth simultaneously. (Kinda' like the time the lights went out at the Superdome midway through Beyoncé's electrifying half-time show at the Superdome.)

Of course, McFarlane was there to attract a younger demographic and boost viewership among the group least-likely to watch an Academy Awards ceremony. The gambit paid off nicely, according to the Nielsen ratings service, with a 20% bump in audience members between the ages of 18 and 34. But one man's treasure was apparently another man's trash, as McFarlane's rendition of songs like "We Saw Your Boobs"; jokes about Jews, blacks, Latinas, domestic violence; and one passive-aggressive swipe at Adele and Melissa McCarthy over their weight, managed to alienate and offend nearly every demographic watching... with the exception of young, white men.

http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/seth-macfarlane-insults-adele-melissa-mccarthy-for-their-weight-with-rex-reed-joke-at-the-oscars-2013252

I'm no slouch when it comes to juvenile humor. My sister has yet to forgive me for taking her (then-underaged) daughter to see "Brüno," and cracking up through scenes that my niece later suggested might not have been "appropriate for children." In other words, I'm pretty immune to being offended by comedy, as long as it makes me laugh. But what I find unacceptable, is a comic who's material is not funny. And this was the case with McFarlane: who, like Chenoweth, reminded me of the over-indulged kid who is foisted upon party guests by parents who make claims like: "I know all parents say this, but my little Seth is sooooo hilarious!!! (Parent turns to little Seth, and encourages:) "Go ahead, Honey, tell 'em the one about blah, blah, blah..."

Invariably, kids like these are seldom hilarious, and their ability to pick up on non-verbal cues telling them so tend to be terribly undeveloped: leaving captive audiences to literally grin and bear it until Little Seth runs out of steam and trots off to bed.

My only motivation for grinning and bearing Big Seth's nearly five hour schtick was a determination to see Benh Zeitlin win an Oscar in each of the three categories (Best Picture, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay) for which his debut film, "Beasts of the Southern Wild" was nominated, and to cheer when his secret-weapon of a leading lady, Quevenzhané Wallis, took home her statuette for Best Actress.

Seems me, Benh and Quevenzhané couldn't win for losing on Oscar night.

My disappointment that "Beasts" didn't get the recognition it deserved in any category (how could a director who elicited such unforgettable performances from two non-actors not get the nod for Best Director?!) would turn to utter despair by the end of the show, as McFarlane and Chenoweth burst into a song & dance about "Losers." Demonstrating a callousness that would have shocked a sociopath, the two even called out Wallis in their    duet-- in spite of the nine-year-old's having stayed up well past her bedtime, and with tremendous grace, to endure a too-long, self-important, boring production that had nothing to do with the honorees, and everything to do with the producers.

I wish I could report that McFarlane and Chenoweth were the only celebrities suffering from Fish-Out-of-Water Syndrome. But that was the overarching theme of a night in which Meron and Zadan seemed to excel at taking performers out of their comfort zones, and putting them in very awkward positions.

Channing Tatum and Charlize Theron doing a ballroom dance was the most benign example of the trend. And while the choreography was lovely, the entire exercise was apropos of nothing.



Catherine Zeta-Jones's bumping and grinding through "All That Jazz" only served as a reminder that it takes a lot more than a pretty face to deliver the kind of scissor kicks, moxie and charm that made stars out of Chita Rivera, Bebe Neuwirth and Ute Lemper when they played Velma Kelly on Broadway. As for singing, there was never cause for speculation that any of the latter three ever lip-synced their way through a live performance-- which was not the case when Zeta-Jones made her comeback on Sunday night.

Michelle Obama's surprise cameo to announce Best Picture also struck me as a random choice on the parts of the producers. Were FLOTUS an avowed patron of the arts, her appearance might not have been so discordant. But between her thanking the Hollywood community for their "vitally important" work-- though not so vital as to warrant a personal appearance in LA for the ceremony-- and the spectre of military service men and women-as-props standing behind Obama, it'll be a long time before anyone convinces me that any showman can produce an affair to remember.

And yet these missteps were nothing compared to the biggest faux pas of the night: which became apparent when the lovely Jennifer Lawrence took a tumble as she ascended the stage to accept her Best Actress Oscar for "Silver Lining Playbook." (Though, if one had to stumble in public, one could only hope to fall with such élan. Between her roles in "Winter's Bone" and "The Hunger Games," I have to admit that I'd always seen Lawrence as a diamond in the rough. But she looked more like a Hitchcock heroine than victim as she lay semi-prone at the foot of the stairs. I even found a lovely symmetry to the vantage point: which showed off the drape and cut of her pale pink silk brocade Dior Haute Couture strapless gown, Chopard diamond necklace and structured-yet-soft chignon to magnificent effect!)

As is her style, Lawrence recovered with typical wit, humor and candor: "Thank you. You guys are just standing up because you feel bad that I fell and that's really embarrassing but thank you." 

I, on the other hand, was feeling anything but magnanimous toward the men who brought jazz hands to the general public. What would it take, I wondered, for Zadan and Meron-- men who'd spent their entire careers observing women wearing floor-length gowns and high heels-- to realize that the combination of the former with a highly-polished staircase is a disaster waiting to happen? Could neither showman anticipate the need for walkers, who might be strategically positioned to assist women through the most vulnerable legs of their journeys, from seat to stage, as they accepted their Oscars? Or is that simply beyond the pay grade of the average producer?

That said, there's nothing like a damsel in distress to bring out a knight in shining armour when and where you least expect it.



Kudos to Jean Dujardin (who was presenting the award), and Hugh Jackman (who was seated in the front row, proximate to the actress)-- both of whom immediately leapt into action with outstretched hands the second Lawrence lost her footing. The evidence of such chivalry being alive an well in LA, albeit via France and Australia, made my heart leap in my chest. And, best of all, proved that I could still count on Hollywood to deliver the razzle dazzle when the chips are down.