THE 2002 SIMON ROCKOWER AWARDS
2002 SIMON ROCKOWER AWARDS
It happened fast, like swerving out of the way of a stray cat.
I was driving toward the valet parking kiosk of a fancy-pants department store in Beverly Hills. As I approached, I saw clusters of press and well-dressed young women gathered to attend a charity brunch. A Mercedes was coming to a slow stop.
I don\’t know what made me do it; I took a sharp left, veering away from the valet kiosk and into an adjacent public lot.
You don\’t plan to become a trivia writer, it just happens. The next thing you know, you\’re a one-woman trivia carnival, packing up your trunk of battered almanacs and dictionaries and moving on to the next show.
As I write this, I look like James Coburn eating a lemon in a windstorm. Drunk. Not only does my face look red and crackly, it must be covered at all times with a Vaseline-like lotion, thick and greasy, giving me the appearance of someone who has just eaten a pork chop with no hands. And I lack Mr. Coburn\’s panache.
In second grade, my alternative San Francisco elementary school gathered all the students together for a \”share\” session. It was a tiny school. We crowded into the library, where a teacher calmly announced that there had been a tragedy over the weekend.
Last night, I was watching \”Big Brother,\” a show mocked for its lack of action. Call me crazy, but to me, it\’s Chekhov; it\’s all about the subtext. Anyway, a contestant named Bunky was voted out of the house last week. That\’s when I realized that slowly, quietly, the new breed of reality shows is causing a revolution.
I remember what I was wearing on just about every first date with every boyfriend I\’ve ever had.
Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl stops returning her friend\’s phone calls. Girl\’s world narrows. Girl loses boy. Girl starts calling her friends again. Girl meets another boy.