THE CAFFIES!
Devoted former readers, bear with me. A reprint of the second to last entry of my old blog, with some worthy additions...
I always find myself surreptitiously checking out the dubious "Hot or Not" or "Overrated/Underrated" features in my stack of regular magazine reads, and (as anyone who knows me can attest) I am a painfully devoted watcher of certain dorky awards shows (the Oscars, the Globes, the Grammys...not the Teen Choice Awards). I don't take it all too seriously, despite what my dad might think (and my roommates, who watched me futz with the rabbit ears on our cable-less TV for half an hour a couple weeks back, until Chris Rock came into proper focus). It wasn't the best week to cancel our cable, perhaps.
I admit it: I love the roiling waves of cultural criticism and acclaim, wherever and however they wash ashore. I paddle about like a little kid at the beach, getting sand in my shorts, and memes up the wazoo. And if you've never had a meme up the wazoo, let me tell you...
Thing is, most of us blanch at the notion of being told what to love; we don't want to be pushed to adopt someone elses' idea of 'cool' or 'hip' or 'worthy'. From US Weekly to McSweeney's, someone is always trying to impact the zeitgeist, albeit with different values and different purposes in mind. While Jonathan Franzen wryly abandoned his shot at being the thirtysomething-chick-bedside-author-of-choice by decrying Oprah's Book Club, I'm sure that he wouldn't have minded a good mention in The New Yorker, or better yet, a nod in an obscure literary journal called 'Potato' (printed only during the Autumnal Equinox on green tea-dyed papyrus, and edited anonymously by Dave Eggers and the spirit of Jack Kerouac, as channeled through a medium named Siobhan).
If such a thing existed. Which it might. I just don't subscribe. I couldn't get on the list.
And what about the lovefest that is the average award show? My dad hates the goshdarn things because of their 'repellent level of self-congratulation', not to mention the cliches they haul out year after year: the teary acceptance marathons; the smartass hosts; the 'I'm still hot' shows of bravado from the old male actors (Jack Palance and pushups being a notable example); the deer-caught-in-headlights Teleprompter readings by people who make 20 million a picture; and my personal favourite, the frantic gesturing by winners at the Oscar orchestra conductor, as he doggedly leads his band to play over thank yous for agents, publicists, the late Dr. Atkins, and, of course, the other nominees ("I am totally inspired by your work...").
I see Dad's point, of course, but then I sit crying right along with the starlets, and the pudgy guy who wins for Documentary Film Editing. As with everything in life, I can either take an ironic step back from the posturing, pomp and primping of the post-modern affirmatory spectrum, or dive unabashedly into the whole mess.
I find it best to do both, in equal amounts.
After all, I thrive on contradiction, and even more so, the confusion my flip-flopping causes the people around me (no, my feet aren't cold). So, while I acknowledge my preferences are arbitrary, unlearned and overly effusive (not to mention subject to change from minute to minute), and while none of the people I celebrate will ever show up to collect a trophy, I am going to step out into the critical ether and offer the second installment (the first being on my first blog ever!) of my own personal awards extravaganza: The Caf/DeCaf Awards (known in the industry as The Caffies, darling).
CAF
Best Perfomances: My mom at Scrabble, Christmas Eve (What do you mean, that's not a word, dear?); Zach and Natalie in Garden State; sashimi; The New England Patriots in the second and third quarter of the SuperBowl; my friend Kristy's pseudo-Irish accent (aye!); Morgan Freeman, in all things (including sleeping and eating, he's just that cool) ; The freaky guy that hangs out at my coffeeshop of choice, and has drama with his friends daily (I can't look away!); Lynne Truss, for taking on punctuation, and making it funny; Dave Eggers (I know, I slagged him previously) in his critical writings, even more so than his novels/collections; OREOS; the GQ series on the American Asshole; Bill Murray in the trailers for The Aquatic Life With Steve Zissou (because I'm pretty sure we caught the highlights there, poor Bill); The squirrel on my deck, having an altercation with our recycling bin for one perfect minute in January; Ryan Gosling's t-shirt in The Notebook; the average blueberry muffin; Sedaris, in all things; my friend Ash's backup singing for J. Lo; Melanie's Blog; Carys May Janzen, just for showing up; Will Smith finally playing romantic comedy; The Irish Heather; Ty Pennington with a megaphone; Trev Linden, patient, weary, trying...; Xzibit on 'Pimp My Ride'; David Letterman, always and forever; Aughsten Burroughs, for finding how he grew up ha-ha funny, and not just strange-funny, on our behalf; Clinton Kelly in the underwear section of any department store in NYC; spring mix; Tom Bingham, email correspondent extraordinaire; my blog readers and donators, because you keep it real, yo!; oysters...aw, shucks; lemons; anything Calvin Trillin, Steve Martin, Louis Menaud, or Tad Friend do in The New Yorker; 'The Dance Scene' in Napoleon Dynamite; Wesley Willis, in all his posthumous glory ("Rock over London, rock over Chicago!"); my friend Catherine watching Anchorman ("I'm trapped in a glass case of emotion!") ; Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine, because she brings it; and finally, the Sun, for showing up in Vancouver for the last couple weeks.
DECAF
Worst Performances: Those crappy-weird MTV shows where they take musical acts with nothing in common, and grind out a radio-ready hit...who could be next? Lars Ulrich and Mandy Moore sharing Neutrogena products?; Anyone and everyone on Wife Swap; Bjork hosting the Olympic Opening Ceremonies under her skirt; the 'free' part of 'freelancing; Lloyd Banks, Fiddy Cent, Eminem, etc etc etc. Because the boasts, the jokes, the bling and the slams are about as tired as a slug scaling a chimney; My lungs, just because; The entire staff of O Magazine, for showing us way too much of ANYONE'S O face...; Telus, for the long distance gouge that never stops hurting; Keebler Cookies (they don't even taste like real elves); My laptop, for freaking out regularly; That guy who always arrives two minutes before I do at the coffee shop, and takes my window perch; Mark Burnett, for being willing to make the Donald's hair a star again; Paris Hilton, for saying,"That's hot!" more often than a Florida weatherman; Movie theatres, for costing so freaking much I can never afford to go; Me, for always forgetting to finish my coffee; disaster flicks, because no one really needed to fear something worse than what's going on in the world today; Blogger; Cali rolls with extra mayo; the American news media, for being so blue and red-obsessed that they've turned into a big old pair of 3-D glasses; and finally, the cheesy bestseller that made the name DaVinci more about some 'Code' than brilliant works of art. (You'll note, my best lists are always longer than my worst ones. That's just how it is. )
LIFETIME LATTE AWARD:
John Cusack. The man who made Lloyd Dobler and Lane Mayer come to life will always have a little piece of my heart...even in exchange for a pen.
May the tearful speeches begin!
12:25:06 AM 
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