I am addicted to awards shows. The glitz, the glamor, the emotion, the awkward and poorly-written scripts… I am addicted to it all.
This addiction most likely spawned as a kid when I realized how much I loved to pretend my cheerleading participation trophies were Oscars and Grammys while giving an acceptance speech in front of the mirror. I would even cue up my own orchestra – Mariah Carey’s Dreamlover or the soundtrack to The Phantom of the Opera provided great “you like me, you really like me” music, depending on the fanciness of the award.
When most kids my age were putting up posters of JTT from Bop magazine on their walls, I was crying on the couch over Leonardo DiCaprio not winning a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his role as Arnie in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? At nine years old, I was already convinced there was no God. (Footnote: At twenty-seven years old, I still totally call bragging rights on having a crush on Leo at nine, wayyy before Titanic was even a schizophrenic whisper in James Cameron’s ear. BOOM.)
Like most addicts, I’m not snobby when it comes to my addiction. No, I’m known to get down and dirty with it and even sit through the Daytime Emmys from time to time, or tune in for the Kids Choice Awards if I’m going through withdrawals. I love watching the ladies from The View consistently not win awards because of Elisabitch Hasselbeck and I still love Nickelodeon slime. It’s a win-win.
You know how a lot of people obsess over their basketball brackets when March Madness hits? Well, my old roommate Mike and I used to create our own Oscars Madness brackets and compare notes in the weeks leading up to the big show. We included the official awards categories of course, but we also created our own, like “Hottest Mess,” “Most Ill-Fitting Cleavage,” and “Matron of the Year.” I even made up a drinking game for the Grammys, and the rules are as follows: take a sip of wine (boxed, as it’s totally apropos to the type of people attending) every time someone thanks God. Yep, that’s it. You’re guaranteed to be shitfaced before the show is halfway over.
Now that it’s July and everything is on hiatus, I feel a pang of emptiness and tremors of withdrawal. The Primetime Emmys are nearly within grasp (Jon Hamm, Michael C. Hall and Alec Baldwin, oh my!), but to hold me over I’ll be unashamedly watching the Teen Choice Awards on July 22, if for no other reason than to see Channing Tatum accept every heartthrob award and cringe at Kristen Stewart as she awkwardly holds her surf board award and shuffles around pigeon-toed. Carly Rae Jepson (who I still cannot accept is actually MY age and not a sophomore in high school) will be performing, along with Justin Bieber’s vagina. I’m assuming there will be some Jennifer Lawrence/Kristen Stewart/bow and arrow interaction, and may the odds be EVER in JL’s favor! Miley Cyrus is nominated for that movie that no one saw, but I don’t know if showing up to the Teen Choice Awards when you may or may not engage in self-mutilation is such a great idea, but then again posing naked with your dad in magazines wasn’t such a great idea either, but we all had to suffer through that, so… who knows, maybe she’ll show up to support her delicious fiance, Liam Hemsworth. I also predict that Katy Perry’s breasts will be sporting various styles of sparkly nouns, and that Taylor Swift will award-bomb someone with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth.
WARNING: The only thing saving me from possibly needing an intervention is the very, VERY slim chance Michael Fassbender may show up in support of Prometheus. Charlize Theron is nominated and I’m pretty sure she has one of those 80’s baby leashes for his penis, so he may have no choice but to show up. Fingers crossed! Either way, I’ll be raising my plastic Hot Dog Shoppe mug of Franzia in celebration. Cheers!
(Photo: WENN.com/Adriana M. Bar)