Hey, Buddy, Watch the Shoes!

By Joel Stein

I have seen the best-paid minds of my generation urinate. That's because my editor agreed to send me to the Oscars only if I spent the entire time in the men's bathroom. That's because my editor is a mean, bitter woman who has serious jealousy issues about my career and wants to sleep with me. I'm very good at this revenge thing.

But it turns out that staying in the bathroom is no worse than watching the ceremony, which is the least manly way of spending an evening other than crocheting while watching the Miss America Pageant. It's even worse if you're seated so far back that you're five rows in front of Gary Coleman and therefore can't make out any onstage cleavage. Plus it was hard being constantly reminded that in terms of pull in the entertainment community, I've only got five rows on Coleman. My agent already got a call.

Anyway, the cool kids hang out by the open bar in the lobby. The really cool kids, I figured, would be in the bathroom getting high and beating up Army Archerd. Hollywood is just like high school.

Unfortunately, just like in high school, no one was talking to me. Which made my stay even more boring, since there was no good primping to watch. The bathroom's only mirrors were against the urinals, which said more about the entertainment industry than anything that happened on the stage. Without mirrors, people at the sinks had to face one another, which offered some uncomfortable moments. That is, until everyone's favorite irrepressible foreign madman, Roberto Benigni, looked up to discover a friend across the way. They immediately started doing that fake mime mirror thing. I don't know how you say "trying too hard" in Italian, but Robin Williams is no doubt going to learn it on his next trip to Italy.

After the first hour, it became difficult to find reasons to be in the bathroom. I grew so self-conscious after the first seven minutes at the urinal that I began to mutter things like "My bladder is as full as the guest list at the Vanity Fair party" and "Katzenberg makes me pee-shy."

At hour three, nursing a Merlot in the far-left stall, I staggered out to see a guy with slicked-back hair tell another guy he hoped he was going to the DreamWorks party because he was "the only fun guy here." But then some bearded guy attached to Topsy-Turvy leaned in and said, "Hey, I take offense at that." They ignored him. Topsy-Turvy is the math club of the Oscars.

The celebrity everyone wanted to talk to was that guy who found the stolen Oscars in the trash. And as much as I eavesdropped, I could not figure out why he was such a hero. It's not like he found a case of insulin. Not to get too Jimmy Stewart on him, but if he hadn't been at that Dumpster, society would have got by with a Best Cinematography trophy short.

And that's why next year the Oscars won't be able to count me as its 6 billionth viewer, or whatever number they claim is slightly higher than the population of the planet. Because I don't care if my favorite actor doesn't win. It's not as if the guy isn't overloaded with babes and money already. Richard Farnsworth is going to be fine. It just takes him a little longer than most people to get going at the urinal.