Dr. Daniel's Movie Emergency - Waiting and Waiting

X-Ray Machine
Waiting and Waiting
A Doctor's Complaint to the Academy

      (Mar. 2, 1999) I don't know why it should bother me so much, but, dangit, it does.
     Late last year, as I've been doing for years now, I wrote in and requested credentials from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to cover the ceremonies for the bestowing of Golden Boys to the deserving few. I filled out my forms, pressing hard so as to make the carbonless copies for Who Knows Who. I even used a ballpoint pen and printed neatly (not easy for a medical professional.) I folded them the right way, I mailed them back a week before the deadline, and I put three stamps on them so there'd be no way there wasn't enough postage on them, no matter how much the stamp price jumped.
     And, here I sit. Waiting.
     Martha Nell brings in the mail every morning. Boring medical journals, new magazines for the waiting room (yes, I provide new magazines. How they disappear and get replaced by seven-year old Good Housekeepings are anybody's guess), bills, junk. But, nothing from the Academy. I hurry home every day and check the mail. Nada. Ed McMahon's trying to give me a fortune; my Premiere's always a week late, but nothing from the Academy.
     You know, fellas, one would conjecture that you don't want the ol' Doc to get a chance at that pressroom. And, see, that's what just stumps me, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'd do a good job out there. I own my own tux, and I promise I'd wear black sneakers with it, so nobody'd really notice the difference. Even got a bow tie that fits and a floral print cummerbund, if that's what it takes.
     I just want to ask some questions, shake a couple of hands, maybe have a trip down the buffet table so I can have a decent shot at the cauliflower florets and the diamond-shaped sandwiches with the crusts cut off. I don't work with cameras, so I don't need a lot of cable or cords or satellite link-ups. I don't carry a microphone, and, personally, I could care less about who designed whose dress or who didn't wear underwear, so I promise I won't take pot shots with Joan Rivers on E! Entertainment Television. I take that back. I am still curious about Ashley Judd's dress last year, 'cause I swear I saw more than I was s'posed to, but that's the only question I'd have about fashion.
     I'm not bringing a bunch of lackeys who run film and bring watered-down drinks from the cash bar. I only put in to bring one other person, and that'd be Junior Bishop from over at the Comp-U-Clinic. Junior would only be there to get me set up on my infernal Watchitaki 3000 LE Laptop. I'd need the help getting the modem to work right, 'cause Junior's brother-in-law Irwin put my modem in wrong, and Junior is the only one who can jiggle the phone jack right to make it work. Other than keeping everything jiggled, all Junior would do is sit there and ask me who people are, because Junior hasn't seen anything in a theatre since Chuck Norris started working for CBS. We could rent him a tux if he had to have one, but I can't guarantee he'd keep the jacket on. Junior rolls his sleeves up over his elbows every day, regardless of the weather. He has this thing about having his wrists free and unencumbered. It's got something to do with Vietnam, but Junior was never in Vietnam, so I've never really understood it, but that's a puzzle for another day.
     If you're worried that I'd make some sort of spectacle out of myself, rest easy. You're free to read my bio. I've talked to a lot of these folks anyway, either on the phone or for a private consultation, so I don't get starstruck. I admit that, if Ashley Judd wears that dress again this year, I'd probably swallow my cigar, but that'd be the end of it. Besides, you're the ones that let Rob Lowe sing to Snow White. How could I embarrass you after y'all did that to yourselves? Cher even accepted her Oscar wearing a magician's assistant outfit, and y'all let her come back every year. I wear real clothes, and I ain't been yet!
     Unless it's something else entirely...
     Like maybe you really just don't want to admit that a semi-humble doctor from Carver Point, Georgia, could possibly belong in the "inner circle" of Hollywood press, just because all I do is self-publish on the Information Superhighway. Folks like People magazine, they get to have like fifty folks running around. Joan Rivers and her offspring stand out front and bad-mouth everybody's clothes. Army Archerd's like, what, eight years older than the statue, and he gets to run all over the place, cramming microphones in everyone's face before they can get out of the car good. And then there's the foreign press. Some Arabian Zillionaire's third son publishes a movie section in his dad's rag and gets front row privilege. Where am I?
     I think that's it. I think you folks out there are just too intimidated by the big boys, and you aren't ever gonna let us little guys get a chance to even get out there and try to give us regular folks a chance to ask a question. All we want to do is get a new perspective on all the hoopla, something besides red carpets, black ties, and bad production numbers. We want to ask the real questions. We want to ask Nick Nolte just how big a pain in the butt Barbra Streisand was. We want to ask Geoffrey Rush how it feels to steal Bill Murray's seat in Nomination Row. We want to ask those Price Waterhouse folks if they really believe that we believe that they don't lay a bet or two on the side. We all know those guys are making out like bandits. And, really, what was the scam with Marisa Tomei that year? Was Jack Palance really drunk and did he read the wrong name? Or would you tell anyone if he did? Or, maybe honest investigative reporting is not you Academy folks' flavor?
     But, I guess we'll see, won't we? You already gypped me out of the nomination ceremony again, but, honestly, that really doesn’t matter. Who needs to fly all the way to California just to get up at five o'clock in the morning? Bet you don't even feed folks that early in the morning. Oh, yeah, maybe that continental breakfast thing, with that stack of oily rolls and some papaya juice with extra pulp. Wouldn't occur to you to get somebody down there that could fry up two eggs and put them on toast with a dab of mustard and a Kraft American Single, now, would it? Probably try to pass off oatmeal instead of grits, anyway....
     Like I said, though. We'll see. I'm a patient man. I can wait. Sooner or later, you'll let me and Junior come out there and cover the Oscars like professionals, instead of having to sit over at Martha Nell's house and watch her big-screen, balancing the Watchitaki on a TV tray while Junior keeps me hooked into the Superhighway. That's fine.
     I can wait...

Get "reel" soon,
Doc

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