When I was a little kid, I really, really, really loved the Oscars. For a wee gay movie-obsessed lad growing up in the suburbs of Atlanta, it was the sort of annual event to be anticipated with both excitement and reverence. Every year when we’d get the TV Guide issue with the full-page “Close-Up” box on the Oscars, featuring thumbnail pictures of the ten Best Actor and Actress nominees, my heart would race. Before I was old enough that my parents would let me stay up late and watch the whole thing (this was back when the show began at 9 p.m. on the East Coast), I somehow convinced them to nudge me awake at midnight, tell me who won in the major categories, and then I’d roll over and go back to sleep.
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Alonso’s Oscar Picks: The Kids Are All Right, The Oscars Are Not
