Choosing to Dance With Little Protest

At first it looked as if the fourth annual Oscar party at Georgia restaurant to honor African Americans in film was going to be a bust. Paparazzi lingered like hungry hounds, waiting for a star to stalk. The dance floor was dead. The bar at this Melrose spot was slow and lonely.

Perhaps it was the Oscar boycott, proposed by the Rev. Jesse Jackson to protest the lack of blacks in Hollywood. Or maybe everybody was at Morton’s. Or maybe the night was just too young. This party, after all, is legendary for its late-night lark.

Indeed, after 1 a.m., things began to explode. First, Quincy Jones, who produced the Oscar ceremonies earlier in the evening, rolled in and was immediately mobbed by the press. His daughter, working for the television show “Extra,” was at the front of the line. “Would you ever consider doing it again,” asked Rashida Jones on camera.

“That’s the wrong question to be asking me tonight,” responded Dad. “It’s hard, honey.”

The buzzword for the night was “boycott.” Asked earlier about why he didn’t boycott the Oscar ceremonies, Jones said, “It was the wrong place for it. But that cause will always be pursued.”

Stevie Wonder strolled in and spent much of the night signing autographs. Also on the spot were Mario Van Peebles, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Herbie Hancock, model Tyra Banks, Jim Brown andthe lone African American nominee for an Oscar, short film director Diane Houston. “I became sort of a poster child” for the protest, she said.

“There are valid issues,” said Houston, who attended the Oscars. “But I was never really sure why target the Oscars.”

Van Peebles and Brown had similar sentiments. “I never really made it in America by protesting anything,” said Brown. “I made it by kicking ass.”

Meanwhile, the dance floor was experiencing Richter conditions as the crowd writhed in sync to deejay Danno Metoyer’s old school jams (“Nasty Girl” followed by “Ring My Bell”--a one-two punch). Campari, a co-sponsor, fueled the fun with martinis.

The female fashion was painfully body-conscious--or booty-conscious--while the guys stuck to variations on the tux. The food was all Georgia, with catfish, gumbo, lobster and Georgia rolls (grits rolled up and stuffed with crayfish) on the tray.

The place was ablaze well after 3 a.m.

As they say, the party must go on.

* LIZ SMITH PARTY HOPS. F2