I'd like to commiserate with the Academy

On Friday, my office sent me a package via Fed-Ex to arrive on Saturday. It still hasn't. The "when it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight" folks report they've had some sort of silly delivery glitch, and I'll absolutely, positively get the package whenever they figure out where it is. Normally I'd be annoyed by this, but not now. Now, I feel just like the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

You may have heard that the Oscar folks are having a little trouble on the delivery end, too. First, they mailed out the all-important Oscar ballots--the ones that, when filled out, are guarded so zealously by the Price Waterhouse accountants--and the ballots never arrived. Turns out they took a little detour to the bulk-mail bin in the back room of another post office. No harm done! Just extend the voting deadline. It's not like the U.S. Postal Service promises to absolutely, positively get anything anywhere anytime anyway.

But then there was the little incident with the trophies themselves. They disappeared from the warehouse of a Los Angeles-area delivery service (though not, I must report, Fed-Ex. So now that they've been found, I can't assume my package is with them.) It's suspected that one or more of the service's employees lifted the statuettes because--oh, who knows? They thought they'd make great gifts? The wisdom of stealing something so overwhelmingly recognizable is questionable, and the thieves must have questioned it too, because they ended up dumping the golden boys in a trash bin. The treasures were discovered by a salvage man, who stuffed them in his car to keep them safe, then asked his son to find out what the heck 55 Oscars were doing in the garbage.

Perhaps I should give him a call and ask him if he's seen any Fed-Ex envelopes. And perhaps the Academy should review the list of jilted potential nominees and figure out which one put a curse on this year's ceremony. What's next, now? Billy Crystal's limo driver takes a wrong turn and fails to deliver the host to the auditorium? Several female nominees' dresses are never delivered, and the stars are forced to wear something from their own meager closets? The Price Waterhouse accountants turn out to be imposters who deliver the completed ballots to the Wall Street Journal? An award presenter tears open the envelope, and it turns out to be my wayward Fed-Ex delivery?

Waiting for the next shoe to drop is almost as suspenseful as waiting to find out who wins.