Obligatory Very Hot Oscar Post

Last night, the Very Hot Jews indulged in their annual celebration of the pat-your-own-back-iest night in Hollywood. Sera brought a bottle of Chandon, Simon provided slightly burnt vegetables and perfectly prepared (read: ordered-in) Caesar salad, a comfy couch and a big-ass TV. Julia, Very Hot Wife Of Simon, wore a fetching striped pirate cap and obligingly researched our every question (Sera and Simon: "Who is this Randy Stone who died two weeks ago, causing Jodie Foster to mist up during her introduction of the Dead Guys segment?" Julia: "Why, let me just Google him here. Hold on one short moment, won't you? Ah yes, Randy Stone. Producer believed to have provided the sperm that generated at least one Foster Junior.").

The Internet and TV at the same time? Sacre bleu, the future, she has arrived, n'est-ce pas?

All in all, pretty good Oscars, right? The MC was engaging; the musical numbers were amusing; Christ, even Al Gore was funny. Ups to Ellen for saying that without Jews, blacks and gays there wouldn’t be any Academy Awards (and therefore, implicitly, no reason to corset yourself into a Vera Wang gown … it’s over now, girls, so eat a freakin’ sandwich). So apart from the grisly spectacle of a few actresses who looked like they’d been whittled from tree branches, it was a better-than-average night.

You will be unsurprised to hear that we got tearful not once but twice during the telecast. By the end of the night we were as pliable and emo as a claque of drunken housewives at a Steel Magnolias/Grey's Anatomy cryathon. Simon is fond of remarking, as a trailer for the latest factory-assembled chick flick draws to a close, "My vagina is weeping. Pass me a tissue; I need to dab." But even he couldn't conceal the occasional lump in his throat during the Oscarcast.

So it goes without saying that Forest Whitaker got us kinda choked up, what with his assertion that he'd not only love on this fantastic moment of Best Actor-ness for the rest of this life, he'd do his damnedest to lug the statue — spiritually if not physically — into his next one. Awesome sentiment, Forry, but did you not get the memo that Oscar winners don't have to reincarnate? Score a gold one in this life, sup with Odin and Thor for all eternity.

Earlier in the evening, Simon and Sera were not yet sloppy with sparkling wine, but merely tipsy. More like slurringly optimistic. Sera in particular felt invested. She does love to see a big girl win an Oscar, even if said zaftig Ms. arrives for the festivities wearing the top half of a baked-potato wrapper. Oh, Jennifer Hudson. Banish that giant, giant gay man who helped you pick out that first-wave Battlestar Galactica jacket-oid thing. We know he, like, means something in fashion. Of course we know that — we read Vogue on the crapper same as everyone else, but still. Mr. Leon Talley is known for showing up in an entire bear's worth of fur and a giant LV-emblazoned manpurse of supreme Russian-mobster-wife unsubtlety. He's too much woman for you. Put down the shiny snakeskin. Don't go into the light.

Anyway, the moment that most interested the VHJ et entourage (i.e. Julia, her Very Hot Sister Jo, and Jo's Very Hot Wiener Dog, Wiener) was the short film category. Wherein we were introduced to one Ari Sandel, director and co-writer of West Bank Story, an apparently delightful little homage to West Side Story in which a forbidden love between an Israeli and a Palestinian blossoms against a backdrop of rival falafel joints.

We've only been able to see the trailer and one scene, but it looks hilarious. Sandel's speech was especially moving (see the reaction of his mishpuchah here) and proof that a five-minute musical spoof with good jokes can often make a better case for peace and understanding than, say, an overlong, convoluted bummer co-starring Brad Pitt. We're just sayin'.

But let's just skip all the political rhetoric about the road map to Mideast disarmament and cut right to the chase, which is holy mother of Jebus, that Ari guy is hot. He is juicy and delicious. He is so totally the apple of every single, nice Jewish girl's eye after standing up there, all tall and cheekboney with good hair, and delivering that fantastic speech about we have no idea what because we were busy screaming that he shall be ours, ours, ours. At least that's the plan. Julia was the first to notice Ari wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Sera was the first to say she was gon' hit that.

(Simon would like you to know that while he agrees Ari is a perfectly presentable-looking young man, the intensely hormonal statement above is all Sera. Sera would like you to know that if you meet Ari, stay the fuck away from her man.)

Ellen's right: Jews — some very hot, some just, ahem, talented — played a huge role in building this garish empire of dreams. And we felt shiny-eyed with pride, not just because we're making world peace with our short-form comedic spoofs and solving the climate crisis with our tastefully appointed hybrid vehicles and cloth bags from Whole Foods. We felt hot naches for all the VHJs making movies (not least of them zaydeh supreme Alan Arkin, who scored his own old man gold man). And we felt grateful for one another and the chance to spend another Oscar night swilling bubbly in our PJs and watching it all float by like a shiny, pretty, crazy, eminently fashionable, utterly delicious baked potato.