I love awards shows. Apparently, I’m the only one.
Big Chris wanted me to hang out in his den of white pleather couches and sin last night, watching football and drinking beer.
“I can’t. The Emmy’s are on.”
“The Emmy’s, bitch. You don’t know what the Emmy’s are?”
“I don’t keep track of your shit, woman.”
“Well, it’s the Oscar’s but for TV.”
“Yeah, I won’t be watching that crap.”
Turns out, I didn’t watch it either. I fell asleep, fully clothed while reading a book. Worse, I fell asleep in the act of reading, I’ve deduced, and thus, lost my place. I was awoken by Zoe calling with gossip that couldn’t wait till she got home.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt. Is it a commercial? I have to read you something.”
“Yeah. The Emmy’s. Is it a commercial?”
“Fuck! I’ve missed it.”
I caught the last half hour or so, while removing the jeans and heels I’d been sleeping in and scraping off a weekend’s worth of mascara. I was bored, watching the skanks in shitty dresses and assholes wearing black tuxedos with black shirts. The banter was limited, thank god, but still terrible and uncomfortable, the kind of repartee that makes me want to change the channel, I’m so embarrassed for the participants.
If I were a presenter at the Emmy’s, I’d wear Narciso Rodriguez, make my date don a white shirt, blow off the teleprompter and steal as many presenter gift bags as I could get my perfectly manicured fingers on.
Growing up, I was obsessed with awards shows, the perfect symbiosis of show biz and fashion. I’d spend the commercial breaks in the bathroom, giving acceptance speeches in the mirror, my trademark being not to thank my friends but to name my enemies. I guess I’m no longer as captivated as I used to be. I turned off the Emmy’s, spent an eternity finding my lost place in my book, and thanked my lucky stars there’d be good TV on Monday.
I mean, hello? Tonight, Laguna goes to Cabo for Spring Break. Now, THAT'S good television. I wonder if Steven will show? To dare but to dream…