Thoroughly Modern SJG

SJG and Grandma Shorty 

Back by popular demand, or sheer SJG laziness, my Oscar memories.  Grab a tissue box, peeps.  You may or may not be moved.

I grew up in a house where watching the Academy Awards was a religious experience. My family took it very seriously. The five of us gathered in the den and on this holiest of nights, we reclined in front of the TV, feasting on cold cuts and potato salad and Pepperidge Farm cookies. The evening took on heightened importance because my dad voted for the awards. Whenever one of his picks won, we all shared an inflated sense of pride, as if we had something to do with it. In the months leading up to the big night, weird and wonderful promotional gifts started arriving: Fortune cookies endorsing “Thoroughly Modern Milly.” A “Butch Cassidy,” giant chocolate bar in the shape of a dollar bill, with Paul Newman and Robert Redford’s faces carved into it. Sheet music and soundtracks from “Oliver” and “The Thomas Crown Affair.”

It was like Hanukkah all over again. My brother John (an aspiring actor in those days) and I fought over this prehistoric swag, racing to get the mail first. Of all of us, John has always adored the Oscars on a deeply spiritual level. Once he hit driving age, deli on a fold-out table had lost its allure. And since my parents had no interest in going, throughout high school, college and beyond, he escorted a different date to the awards. My dad had a whole system worked out for scoring primo tickets: a three-pound box of See’s candy, addressed to the nice Academy lady in charge of seating. 

Brother and sister on their way to the Oscars

Year after year, I'd ask,“When do I get to go?”  By the time John took pity on me, I was 24 and already married. The year was 1983. The hot movies: “Gandhi,” “E.T.”, “Tootsie,” “Sophie’s Choice,” “An Officer and a Gentleman.” It was my turn and I was going to make the most of it. First I had to figure out what to borrow. Buying new clothes was out of the question; I worked at a bankrupt newspaper. So, I ventured into my tiny closet and pulled out a one-piece, snazzy black velvet number left over from New Year’s Eve. It some needed help.

I turned to friends and family, and they delivered accessories. From Carla came a rhinestone belt that dressed the outfit up significantly. From Mom came a long strand of pearls and black silk, strappy shoes, size seven narrow. I’m a six and a half. By the end of the night, I was crippled in pain, but it was worth it. The final wardrobe touch came from my 83-year-old, Russian grandmother. Don’t pelt me with blood: I wore her mink stole! Back then, it was acceptable. That mink hasn’t gone out in public since.

Off we went to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  John sported a red cummerbund, and I looked like a little girl playing dress-up. We walked the red carpet and no one took notice, not that we could blame them. We were nobodies who felt like somebodies that night. Before the show, big time stars surrounded us. It was an adrenaline rush. I could barely catch my breath. Over there was Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Across the room, Fred Astaire, looking frail yet elegant. I stood this close to Jessica Lange in the ladies room, side by side in our stalls. When Julie Andrews walked by, I nearly had a coronary.  We're talking Mary Poppins, people!

A pre-show favorite: The sight of Liza Minnelli, several rows ahead of us, smacking and chomping on her gum. It was a white trash moment, not befitting Judy Garland’s daughter. I wanted to run over, stick my hand in her face and say, “Liza with a Z! Spit it out, girlfriend!”

The show was filled with technical glitches, mismatched presenters, and uncomfortable hosts – gum-chomper Liza, Dudley Moore, Walter Matthau and Richard Pryor. A high point: Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes singing “Up Where We Belong.” A low-point: the Mickey Rooney tribute, when he kept talking. And talking. Who cared!  We loved every minute.  Of course, I could go on and on. I could tell you how we waited over an hour for our car, alongside a young, dashing Christopher Reeve. But I hate to name drop, it's beneath me.  So instead, I’d like to close by thanking the Academy. And all the people who’ve helped me get here. You know who you are. And most of all, my brother John for an unforgettable evening.