And the award goes to . . .

Did you tune in to the Golden Globes a week ago Sunday?
I would like to hear you say a resounding no. But sadly, some of you, like me, have weak minds and I tuned in—but only until Jacqueline Bisset’s long, drawn-out who-me speech had me wanting to kick in the television.
Why? Why? I shouted at the television. Why do I tune into this group of pretty people who tell each other how wonderful they are, and who wear ridiculous clothing and no one feels any obligation to check his/her ego at the door.
Naomi Watts practically wrestled the envelope away from Mark Ruffalo so that she, not he, could say: “And the winner is . . .”
Come on.
And now I’m grumpy. This whole award program scene makes me grumpy and I am disgusted with myself for watching. I would have been better advised to stare at an eclipse and ignore the warnings, risking permanent damage to my retina, than to watch one of the too numerous award shows that are like a killer virus this time of year.
These “celebrities” are worse than professional athletes. They all are paid ridiculous sums of money to participate in the industry of film and television that is supported by you and I buying tickets and tuning in.
We, the ordinary, watch in awe; tune in to “Entertainment Tonight,” and pick up “US” and “People” magazines, to find out whose marriages have fallen apart, who has been arrested for drinking too much, who has gone off the rails.
Why? Why do we care?
I’d like to see my garbage man get a Golden Globe because he is doing something important; or my hairdresser who is on her feet all day. Or the people who grow my food and fight with Mother Nature to do so.
Or the guy that plows my lane and allows me freedom after a snowstorm, the doctor who texts my daughter at any hour to comfort her “new mom” worries, or the people who earn minimum wage and still must bear our impatient rudeness, whether they are serving up a cup of coffee or making a printed copy of some important document.
These people, these hard-working real-life people, are the celebrities; not the so-called “stars” such as that actress who wore a dress that made her look like a human orchid and whose price tag, if matched, could change the lives of starving children around the world.
I fear I rant about this every year, and I think every year I forget my own politics and tune in until I am reminded that my principles need dusting off. I always feel worse after being witness to the extravagant waste, and I am reminded how far wrong we’ve gone.
I know there are films that shine the light on important subjects and we learn from these films, are reminded of the atrocities we have committed as a society in the hopes we don’t repeat ourselves, and are lifted up by the fun and music of others.
I admire people like Meryl Streep, who brings her brilliance to the screen while seemingly remembering to be human.
And I laughed with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler; they were funny, especially when they got a good jab in at George Clooney and his choice in dates that have just graduated pre-school and a few other good one-liners.
Underneath all that glitz and glam do reside some decent folk, who came from ordinary beginnings and meager starts, and I am sure they are making a difference wherever they can.
I fear I am cynical—and that’s not so bad as long as my cynicism spurs me into action and not just ranting and complaining.
I shall host my own award show. Best baby of 2013: Linden. Hasn’t slept all night yet, but promises to.
He also wins for best smile and best rolling over and. . . .
wendistewart@live.ca