Oscar, Oscar, you’ve come and gone. This year’s dose of triumph, tragedy, glitz, taste (good and awful), grace under pressure and bratty behavior Hollywood style is now but a memory.

As souvenirs, we have the pounds gained munching popcorn and party foods during the ceremony, and, in our memories, the way things were the night on when Brokeback Mountain should have won Best Picture.

In recent years, I have not been a knee-jerk Oscar-watcher, often threatening to skip the festivities entirely. But, as I actually saw all of the films and most of the performances nominated for the little gold statuette (which famously reminded Bette Davis of her Uncle Oscar, hence the name) I made sure I was otherwise unengaged on Sunday, February 26. Heck, I hadn’t been invited to any A-list parties anyway, so I was left to sit with a cat on each knee to partake of Uncle Oscar.

I confess I could not bring myself to tune into the pre-ceremony goings-on hosted by those three non-Shakespearean Witches of Wilshire Boulevard, the untalented Melissa Rosenberg, the unbearable Joan Rivers (Melissa’s mommie dearest) and the unspeakable Star Jones. So, I glommed onto ABC TV at precisely 8 p.m. It was a good start—the opening skit, in which many hosts of recent Oscar telecasts were seen refusing to host this year’s edition was cute—but very prophetic.

Jon Stewart, a personable, sometimes sharp-edged performer on his own show, was totally at sea here. Most of his jokes weren’t funny, he lacked sparkle and he didn’t even seem to have a tangible connection to the movie business. So, expecting the musical numbers to be down to their usual standard this year (more about Best Song later), that left us with only the Oscars themselves to anticipate.

To my mind, the awards are a little unfair. They are sooo subjective. The evening began problematically for me with the very first Oscar of the night, which I knew, in my heart, belonged to young Jake Gyllenhaal for his performance as the doomed (but gorgeous) Jack Twist in Brokeback Mountain.

Wake-up call! The award went to George Clooney for his role in Syriana, but was probably recognizing the great job he did on all counts for Good Night and Good Luck.

On one hand, my stomach soured with disappointment, but on the other hand, I like George Clooney and he did do fine work. Still, I wanted nothing more and nothing less than a clean sweep for "my movie," Brokeback Mountain. I’d start abbreviating the title to "B.M.," but that acronym is already taken.

Anyway, Jake’s a young guy, and I’m sure he’ll have other nominations, but not for playing a gay and hunky young cowboy. Sheepboy, actually.

The technical awards came and went. I rather enjoyed the homage to film noir, but was shocked to see the one REAL star visible all night, the 80-something and still gorgeous Lauren Bacall, stumble so badly over her lines. Where were the cue-cards?

Time passed. There was the usual parade of expensively but tastelessly dressed starlets, mammaries pouring out of their dresses. If only Coco Chanel had been there, she would have spanked all concerned and then draped them in black.

The evening wore on. Rachel Weitz beat out Michelle Phillips of Brokeback for Best Featured Actress—another stab to my heart.

Whew! Brokeback finally won for Best Adapted Screenplay. I was glad to see a win for the movie which is so relevant to me. After all, it deals with gay cowboys and I’m a gay guy who hasn’t put tush to saddle since 1960. Truthfully, though, I don’t want to make fun of this. It is relevant to me and to all of us because, whether it’s Wyoming or the Upper West Side, we all, at some point in our lives, have fallen in love with someone who is wonderful yet poisonous to us. And who among us has not been forced to hide our true sexuality from the prying eyes of others?

And it’s been fun. At the Purim Party at Manhattan’s Gay Synagogue this year, all the rabbinical staff and much of the congregation came dressed as denizens of Brokeback Mountain, with an assistant rabbi even costumed as one of the sheep. Ha!

Also, it was good to see a film about homosexuality done with sympathy and taste—showing people it’s not always The Birdcage. Yes, this was a worthy motion picture that I believe will generate much sympathy and respect for gay people.

Back at the telecast, I was very disappointed when Felicity Huffmann did not win Best Actress for TransAmerica. I really enjoyed this quirky little dramedy in which the intrepid Miss Huffmann plays—with enormous charm and skill—a man, living as a woman, who is about to have a sex change operation. At the last minute she is confronted with the very troubled teenage son he had fathered. It’s a "road" picture, chock full of adventure, tsoris, and even farce. It should be seen, and Miss Huffmann, who made this movie before she became a "Desperate Housewife," is proving herself to be a major talent. However, the Academy didn’t vote for her and it was clearly not going to be a big night for the counter culture.

And then came Best Song: "It’s Hard to be a Pimp," as sung by Three 6 Mafia. Far be it for me to disparage a musical style I don’t like or the artists who create andperform it. But let’s just say that it didn’t seem like your typical Oscar winner. I would have much preferred something like "Three Coins in the Fountain."

So the night wore on and suspense grew. Finally, another win, as Brokeback’s Ang Lee did win for best direction. That was wonderful to see.

But then it happened. Jack Nicholson strode onstage to present the award for Best Picture. I couldn’t believe it—this jaded New Yorker was having palpitations. Nicholson slowly opened the envelope and Crash, not my choice, but an eminently worthy film, had won.

Oh well, Brokeback won three Oscars, including two big ones. Hopes for a sweep aside it’s still a fabulous movie and will be shown for decades to come. But deep in the innermost regions of my soul. I kept hearing the words, "We was robbed."

Maybe, maybe not. You can’t really analyze the Academy Awards. They are simply too fractious for that. We have to accept them for what they are: a circus-like mixture of the good, the rotten, and the totally atrocious. And in the end, Brokeback Mountain did well. There’s hope.

Maybe there’s hope for my screenplay about sexually confused vampires, called TransSylvania? Okay, okay, I’ll put the tinsel away, but the glamour stays with me.

Oscar, I don’t know how to quit you!