I spent Saturday morning in a hung-over haze, drinking coffee and hoping for a good movie on TBS or similar. I ended up watching The American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award Tribute to Meryl Streep and it's opened a whole new world for me. Really, is there anything better than a 2 hour televised celebrity studded extravaganza whose sole purpose is public worship and adoration?
No, there isn't.
Thus, I've decided this is how I'd like my next birthday celebrated. I want an AFI Lifetime Achievement Tribute, staring me and my glorious celebrity friends and colleagues, full of video montages and tearful videotaped messages of love from the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Tom Hanks, and (gasp) Bill Murray. Oh, no. I want Bill to host, actually. And, each fabulous year of my life will be detailed and applauded, the audience enthralled by my dance recitals, touched by my personal tragedies, and inspired by my joie de vivre. All the while, I sit, swaddled in plaid taffeta (don't ask) behind a floral encrusted dais chugging Stag's Leap and pretending to be modest.
Oh look. Here comes George Clooney. He winks at me from the stage, shares some personal tidbits about our close and often written about friendship, and then chokes up as he recounts the first time he saw me across a crowded room at The Sundance Film Festival.
Wait. It's the cast of Friends doing a choreographed dance routine to a medley of my favorite songs. And, here we have Bill Clinton, so moved he can barely speak, save for referring to me as a "confidant and close personal advisor." He bows his head and touches his heart. There are no words.
Finally, once the endless parade of Beth worship comes to an end, I must make my way past the thousands of admirers (Kevin Spacey, I can't believe you made it!) and onto the stage for my speech. Looking out into the crowd, a sea of adoring faces all turned to me, I begin. I thank my family, my dear friends, all the talented people I've ever worked with. I joke, I reminisce, I wink back at George Clooney. And when it's all finally over, my limo whisks me away to my top secret VIP after party at SkyBar, exclusively photographed by Vanity Fair. I make my entrance just as J-Lo is turned away at the door and I strut directly onto the dance floor, where I immediately begin to bust a move with Justin Timberlake and his back up dancers. I party till the wee hours, pass out amid a mountain of delivered bouquets, and awake poor and alone at 916A, the only clues as to the previous night's events being an empty bottle of Cristal and a mysterious hickey, rumored to be the mark of Clooney.
Bonnie, make it happen.