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Nothing Personal
Thirsty heart
For The Boss, it's gotta be Hellmann's ... and orange bubbly. Plus: More mammarial madness from photogenic Scientologists! And: David Duchovny takes umbrage.
By Amy Reiter
[03/24/00]

People Feature
Henry Miller, hot pants and ants
You think you've got problems? The Geezer's gotta cope with the 3 a.m. blues and that dratted Bob Marley. But then there's Flor, the rose of Castille ...
By Carlos Amantea
[03/24/00]

People Feature
Why do elephants paint?
Well, because there's a shortage of jobs in the logging industry these days. And, no, as a matter of fact, they don't sell their canvases for peanuts.
By Elizabeth Bukowski
[03/23/00]

People Feature
Blame Canada? Hell, let's declare war!
It's a vile, cold, wooded wasteland populated with propaganda-spewing lumberjacks and their irritating ilk. Who needs it?
By Lance Gould
[03/23/00]

Nothing Personal
Hugs 'n' drugs
Mackenzie Phillips: "My father taught me how to shoot up"; Halle Berry: Why do bad drivers happen to good dogs? Plus: Mariah Carey says ninth-graders are hotter than she is!
By Amy Reiter
[03/22/00]

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The absolute best movie, best liner notes, most admirable and accomplished young woman -- apparently there is no such thing as an unquantifiable virtue. Vancouver recently hosted the Aboriginal Achievement Awards, at which a man was honored for negotiating a native-land claim (although best treaty was not an actual category). The relentless procession of awards is frequently derided as pointless, ridiculous, even ludicrous. All of which is probably true.

But also irrelevant. Awards ceremonies, so often cursed by bad Celine Dion renditions -- or, even worse, Celine Dion -- are nonetheless inherently compelling. The love of horse races and big blue ribbons must surely be in our DNA.

I've occupied every seat at the awards banquet: winner, also-ran and imperious judge. The winner knows that at last his or her work has been understood, his or her special qualities recognized. The loser suspects it's all a farce. The judge knows it.

Coaxed by a friend into officiating at one tawdry competition, I sat horrified as a parade of sad modeling wannabes flounced around a nightclub dance floor, hoping that we the jury would sense their untapped potential. Meanwhile organizers were still thrusting messy bundles of ballots into our hands as contestants were already leaving the floor.

Too late, it became clear that we were complicit in a cynical little scam -- trading on pathetic dreams of stardom to fill up a bar on a slow night, all under the guise of a charity fund-raiser. I didn't have the heart to ask whether the poor saps had paid for their places on the ballot.

Yet, despite having seen how those sausages are made, my craving persists. I'm an awards whore. The emotional need for recognition trumps the intellectual realization that such rankings are silly. Plus, there is the undeniable utility of such honors. To be a good writer, performer or treaty negotiator is a fine thing. But for the instant reaction, the light that goes on in your interlocutor's eyes, there is no substitute for that magic hyphenated phrase, "award-winning." Describe yourself as a star and your skeptical audience will have only your word for it. Describe yourself (or better yet, be described) as an award winner, and it's official. You won. You the man!

Not every judging experience has been as shabby as that nightclub fiasco. As a jurist in Canada's National Magazine Awards, I was impressed by the thoughtful discussions that helped our panel agree on its favorite candidates for glory, and the resulting honorees were truly worthy. But any jury prize is basically arbitrary. Certain types of work habitually win awards while other worthy efforts, executed with just as much skill and dash, never have a chance. They lack some key trigger that might shoot them to the podium: a perception of weight, impact or emotional power. Cheap emotion often works like a voodoo charm, while steady, reliable accomplishment -- the hallmark of a great columnist -- is virtually never recognized, at least not in a way that will take up mantel space.

Legitimate personal struggle can definitely be parlayed into prizes. Last year I wrote a chronicle of alcoholism in which I confessed that once upon a time, I was not merely a drunk but an incontinent drunk. They gave me an award. Note to would-be winners: Pants pissing plays big.

Perfect awards require perfect juries. Like Socrates' plan for good government via enlightened despots, our prize ceremonies ought to have wise, all-knowing adjudicators. Fat chance. The Oscars are best ignored, not because the very idea of such awards is repugnant but because a piece of second-rate tripe like "American Beauty" is poised for a sweep while the people behind "Three Kings" probably had trouble getting tickets.

It's hard to decide which was more remarkable -- the revelation that Hollywood could still come up with an action film so original and intelligent or the revelation that having done so Hollywood would then fail to congratulate either itself or the filmmakers for the accomplishment. The academy's neglect of "Three Kings" merely underlines the irrelevance of the show-biz establishment -- like those lists of past Grammy winners that now read like the predictions of the world's most incompetent bookie.

Back at the Miss Vancouver Pageant the public speaking continues, with most offerings struggling to achieve the level of a bad "Star Trek" monologue. One young woman gives a brief list of the 20th century's greatest accomplishments. It includes Velcro and cell phones. "Galileo, Madame Curie," recites another contestant breathlessly. "They lived with their hearts, not their minds."

Then, miraculously, one young woman walks to the foot of the stage and begins speaking -- really speaking -- to the audience. Her words, while not particularly weighty or memorable, are delivered as though across a table for two in a casual diner. She talks easily about her priorities and plans for the future. Like all good communicators, she makes the difficult task of public speaking appear effortless. Her reward: failure to make the finals. Hence, Awards Lesson No. 1: Always let them see you sweat.

Jimmy Stewart spoke bemusedly about actors who will thrash and grimace through heartbreaking performances as drunks or junkies, then look thoroughly unconvincing as they are shown walking downstairs to check the mail. The best always make it look easy, and then the Oscar goes to Whoopi Goldberg.

Next page | And the award for best impersonation of a deranged puppy goes to ...