The 52nd Grammy Awards were just televised, and I want to know who exactly to sue for making me listen to Taylor Swift sing live.
She is the reason why the studio recording software Auto Tune was created, and she should be made to wear a collar that shocks her if she attempts to vocalize without it. I was afraid that Stevie Nicks, with whom she sang “Rhiannon,” was going to use those flowing ribbons on her tambourine to hang herself. Just as the song ended and relief was in sight, they launched into Taylor’s hit “You Belong to Me,” giving Stevie the chance to sing about bleachers and teenage crushes at the age of 61.
It just wouldn’t end, and actual damage was done to all who witnessed it. It was auditory water boarding.

Write your congressman, for it must not be allowed to happen again. Award season is upon us, and March 7th is the Grand Poobah of them all . . . the Oscars. This is year 82 for The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences big, big night, and this year promises a huge turnout.
What is a huge turnout for the Oscars? In 1997 James Cameron won 11 Oscars for Titanic and stepped on himself by quoting his own movie and declaring himself “King of the World.” 55 million people watched. Before the Academy gets smug, however, bear in mind that the Superbowl pulls over 106 million viewers, and inspires mass drunkenness and actual mob behavior. Nobody gets hoarse or paints their face two colors for the Oscars. Take that, Brangelina.

In the grand Hollywood tradition of “more is better,” there are ten Best Picture nominees this year. It is going to be hard to ignore Avatar, considering it cost between $200 and $300 million to make and introduced never before seen technology that blends live performance and animation. Plus it’s in 3D, which makes movie night fun again because you get to wear those funky glasses. Love or hate James Cameron, but the scope alone of his project dwarfs the competition.

But size isn’t everything. On the other side of the best picture spectrum is Precious, a movie with subject matter so painful it is difficult to watch. The actress who played Precious, Gabourey Sidibe, is the daughter of a gospel singer and a cab driver who was raised in Harlem by a single mother. She defies the stereotypical image of a movie star, and watching her win Best Actress on her first role ever would be center of the cinnamon-roll good. It will help me heal from the trauma of looking at Joan Rivers’ surgical decisions.

Grammys, Oscars—not even the Pulitzer—can compare with some of life’s less obvious trophies. I have hanging in my office a handmade badge that was presented to me by my team of producers. It is made of now faded pink construction paper and is shaped like a ribbon. It simply reads “Most Inappropriate Thing Ever Said at a Shoot.” While my sense of jurisprudence prohibits me from explaining exactly how I won this hallowed award, I will say this much—I earned it fair and square.

We are taught to revere trophies early in life. In kindergarten certificates are given out for Best Artist, paving the way for team sports where the competition really gets wacky. As adults slugging it out in the corporate world, we’re ready to sell a million dollars worth of anything for a nine-inch “Big Hitters” Award to dress up our cubicle.

I know three men who are best friends, and they are so competitive that one weekend at the beach they spent three days betting on literally everything, from backgammon and ballgames to how long one of them stayed in the bathroom. They were powerless to quit. They marked their various scores on a dry erase board in the kitchen, actually taking cell phone pictures of the board so as to prove that no changes had been made while one of them slept. When the youngest of the three officially won the horseshoe tournament, the other two later mailed him a special engraved plaque. Close inspection reveals a small gold silhouette of a very effeminate looking figure holding a horseshoe. It’s a trophy with a dig. Genius.

Some awards are personal. When my husband was diagnosed with his first of three supposedly terminal cancers, our daughter was four months old. He mentioned at the time his anguish at not being able to be there in the future to teach her how to drive, but it didn’t really register with me. A combination of divine intervention, medical technology, and sheer will has kept him on the planet, and—against all odds—the day came when he stood in the driveway with a garage door opener in his hand. He called to her inside the house in an irritated voice, yelling to her to come outside and help him. She stomped out to see what he wanted, and when she got right in front of the door he hit the button. As the garage door went up to reveal the used SUV he had bought for her, I was ready with a camera and captured a close up of the look on her face.

He took that picture and mailed it to the doctor who performed his two colon resections, Dr. Dan Mirrelman, thanking him for turning his liver over to find that the cancer had spread to it. He included the picture and copied Dr. Marty Heslin, who had removed two thirds of his liver, and did the same with Dr. Jimmy Harvey, the oncologist whom he credited with helping him decide to try to keep on living.

I saw Dr. Harvey in a store one day, and he told me that he had put that picture under the glass that tops his desk. How amazing…a snapshot of a teenager he doesn’t know getting a car he’s never seen sits on his desk, reminding him every time he sees it why he does what he does.
Now that’s a trophy. I hope it made him feel like king of the world.