So Hudson comes in with this Hangdog expression.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask. He didn’t come in when called last night.
“On the town with Horace.”
“Hudson and Horace!” Dead Beat cannot think of a worse combination.
“Oscar parties. Marty Scorsese, Vanity Fair, you know.”
“No, I don’t know Hudson. Dead Beat has never been to the Oscars, Dead Beat has never even been to an Oscar party, Dead Beat has never really been to a party in fact, Dead Beat….”
“Leave it out Dad! You got nominated for an Irish Blog Award, didn’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s like I was saying to Marty at the party….”
“Marty at the party, Hudson?”
“Yeah, Scorsie. I was telling Scorsie….”
“To you, Dead Beat, to you…. Anyway there Horace and I are, gridlocked, Gwyneth, Tom, Nicole, Leonardo, Cate, Kate, you know how it is?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So streets in a two-block circumference of Morton's were closed off by police, there are three fire engines in attendance since stars tend to flout the no-smoking laws….”
“You didn’t Hudson?”
“One cigar, Dad, maybe two, three at the most. Anyway Madonna is hitching up her skirt and placing a wine glass between her thighs, Dame Helen Mirren is missing, probably sitting in the toilet, staring at her Oscar and talking to it….”
“Get to the point, Hudson.”
“There is no point, Dad. These are the Oscars we are talking about. I was down at the grand Beverly Hills Hotel when a stream of expensively-wrapped packages arrived culminating in a planet-sized floral bouquet, vast enough for its aroma to linger after it had been dispatched upstairs. "What is that amazing smell?," Horace asked the receptionist. "It's the smell of success, the sweet smell of success." I have made it, Dad, Hudson has tasted the sweet smell of success.”