Hugh Jackman rocks

Okay, let's get right to the Oscars - what did you think? Wayson and I sat eating apple pie and enjoying the whole thing. The show had an intimate, theatre-y feel, even to the way they shrank that vast stage to a small set every so often. Loved the chatty banter from stage to audience, and having the former winners honour this year's nominees. And India - India everywhere, how amazing is that? Of course, when an Indian movie won, the stage filled with a vast crowd. And the speech of that beautiful young screenwriter of "Milk." And finally, Sean Penn mentioned America electing "an elegant man as President" - the only word about that vital sea-change the whole night. And Hugh Jackman and James Franco - mmmm. Mmmmmmmmmmm. I could go on.

It was fun and we indulged in a minimum of catty talk, though I did think that it's time for Sophia Loren to relax and let it all go, and Goldie Hawn's dress showed just a tad too much, didn't you think? And I didn't like how they did the obituary segment, you couldn't see half the names. But it was classy and self-deprecating in just the right ways, and for once, I didn't turn off the TV much too late and wonder why I'd wasted all that time.

My friend Nick called yesterday to say he's home from the hospital and doing fine. Nick, one of the sweetest, kindest men you will ever meet, and I were actors together in Vancouver in the seventies; he is still acting and supply-teaching, he has a black belt in karate and is also a singer-songwriter. When I visited him in hospital after his operation, he sang a blues song he had just written, which ends, "As the clock proceeds to tick/ and time does what it pleases,/ you just might wake up sick/ with some unfortunate diseases./ So I wish you all the best/ which is what you would expect of me/ 'cause the PSA test, just might suggest/ you get a prostatectomy!"

He was very proud to have found several rhymes for "prostatectomy." What a joyful soul. A young writer friend asked me recently, "How do you handle depression?" I had to think for a moment and then replied, "I don't get depressed." She looked amazed. I explained that I used to, I suppose, when I was younger - certainly I was hit with PMS, when a great dark cloud would envelope my head. But now - my God, who has time for depression? I told her that I love coffee so much that I'm overjoyed to get out of bed in the morning because I'm going to drink coffee. And then there's so much else to look forward to. 

Perhaps this is a factor of being in your late fifties rather than in your late thirties - the sense that time is a'wasting. There are rhymes for "prostatectomy" to find, and beautiful women in long dresses and Hugh Jackman to watch.