The Awards Season

The OscarsExactly two weeks ago, I found myself pretending to be surprised over the news that everyone in the party had already texted me: I won an award. Of course, an hour and two plates of lasagnas before the moment I hugged my best friend just like in the Oscars and debuted on the red carpet wearing a tie I did not know how to tie, I did not however expect to win anything.

Sure, I’ve always know that I was quirky. That I was funny… somehow. I mean, I’ve felt like I was fucking funny. That almost everything that ever comes out of my mouth could be really smart, really funny, really mean or really stupid. (All of which I had adapted from my goddess and inspiration in life Mindy Kaling). The thing is, as I was waiting for the elevator, I was praying to God that those texts weren’t a joke. And they weren’t.

It felt goddamn surreal. Everything did not make any sense. I remember on the first day of college what Ma’am Nerisa del Carmen Guevara, the only professor who came in that day, wrote in the white board: the eight, huge capital letters: USTETIKA. She said non-verbatim that it would help in creating a literary career path. And it felt really distant to me at that time–I did not for three years had enough guts to submit an entry which is personal and humorous until weeks ago. And to win because of it, I was more than shocked. It was one of those “fuck it–I’m going to pass this” thang that is either my worst piece of work or my best. (Up to now, I don’t know)

As I was walking towards the stage, seeing everyone clapping for me, I thought my mouth was going to fall off. I was smiling as big as I could and at one point my jaws started to hurt. The way my professor in Fiction clapped for me really warmed my heart. Even one of my literary crushes, a writer of poetry, let’s hide him in the initials of C.A.D., eyed me. Now, C.A.D. likes some of my Facebook statuses and I’m really just thankful for the gods–both old and the new.

The handshake from my Nonfiction professor Sir Jack was not enough. I wished I had enough guts to hug everyone in the room. I wanted to thank them so bad. There were people in the room that I consider as heroes, people I looked up for inspiration like the goddess of Creative Nonfiction in the Philippines Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, which I consider as my literary grandmother. (You see, I have created myself a literary family—and all of them surround me because my world revolves around me alone. My father is Mike Coroza, my grandfather’s Rio Alma, my mother is Rebecca Anonuevo…)

I wished we were allowed to speak to thank everyone and tell everyone that on that day I sang Amy Winehouse in the shower. Instead, I’m writing a blog entry all about it instead of doing a paper on Old Spanish Poetry due on Tuesday in the library with a girl in her Commerce uniform beside me surfing 9gag. (Let’s hope she doesn’t see this as I am typing this)

What really scared me after receiving the award was how my teachers and my classmates would react. Sure, they’d celebrate with me, congratulate me, ask me to treat them booze (and I did, to the people who did not ask for it), and even hug me if they’re brave enough but they would expect me to be great all the time, to be the best version of myself all the time and I do not want that to ever happen because to be honest, I’m a lazy motherfucker. I’m one lazy son of a bitch. Always has been and always will be and I will continue to do my homework and required readings three hours before deadline. I will continue to watch Nora Ephron romantic comedies during exam week. I will continue to sleep nine hours a day and wonder why my friends do not get enough sleep. After all, an award doesn’t really define you. It does not dictate entirely who you are and who you should be. It’s simply a label a group of people gave to you. It only says something about some weird and creative part of you. It’s just a wonderful manifestation of the world saying: maybe you’re doing something right or you’re just downright lucky.

Enough about me though. We have something to talk about and that is the Oscars! And I’m going to be really talkative about it because I have a lot of feelings about it. There’s going to be a lot of names, title of movies and pop culture references so I’d like to suggest to you particularly to my family who I honestly think is not interested in my work (but only in my achievements and how I feel about them) to stop reading. But if you’re as Hollywood-obsessed as me, read along:

I’d like to think that the Oscars is the finale to every movie nominated. That finally every little hardwork of the production staff of every movie will not be as acknowledged as those who took the acting roles. I mean, all of the producers, editors, designers, and personal assistants are seated behind the actors and all the speeches of the Grand Budapest Hotel production staff are shorter than Eddie Redmayne’s speech (The Theory of Everything) or Patricia Arquette’s (Boyhood). So my advice: go to acting.

First and foremost, yesterday, someone stole Lupita Nyong’o’s dress and I would like to have justice for that. Second, Neil Patrick Harris, I love you and your half-naked body but I want Ellen DeGeneres or Jennifer Lawrence to host the show. Third, Lady Gaga is amazing. I’m sure everyone reading this knows this by now. I mean, the legendary Julie Andrews praised her. Fourth, remember that speech that made me shed a tear or two about “staying weird” from the writer of The Imitation Game, he was directly referring it to me because I will stand up one day on that stage, holding my Oscars which will be eventually taken away from me by my colleagues and thank everyone I know that everyone in the audience do not know and care about. I know that I will win because I’ve already written an acceptance speech in my phone. (You could ask if you’d like to see it).

Another thing: all of my Oscar bets won: from Julianne Moore (Still Alice) for Best Actress to Birdman for Best Picture. Well, not everyone. I kind of hoped for Richard Linklater (director of Boyhood) to win Best Direction but I’m also happy for Birdman’s director whom I do not know how to spell the name of.

I’m sad that I didn’t get to watch every nominated film for Best Picture. There are two movies I haven’t watched: Selma and Whiplash so I did not get any jokes referring to those movies except that of Octavia Spencer who was a darling in Snowpiercer (one of my recently watched films).

Speaking of Selma, I would like to raise an issue! Listen carefully. It’s about how Oscars is all about the white people because that is not true, according to the hashtag #OscarsSoWhite. First of all, I like black people—they’re really good at making Vines and John Legend makes me cry in every performance of Glory  but think it’s racist if people acknowledge that there aren’t enough black people in the Oscars. I mean, it’s racist if the holy Academy would nominate two or three black people so they wouldn’t be called racist. It’s racist if Lena Dunham hired a black best friend so she wouldn’t be called racist. I mean, it’s about the work, not if the director is white or not. Also, the director of Birdman is Mexican. Selma was nominated and I am not defending white people because I am not even white myself. I’m in the Philippines, and we did not even get a nomination for the Foreign Language category and I really don’t care about it.

However, this issue only calls for more entries to the Oscars with more diverse perspective. Everyone should take this as motivation to create films with fresh eyes and to watch them carefully and to listen to them.

Also, I’ve watched Fashion Police, and I think Emma Stone wore a nice gown and I want John Travolta’s necklace.

Short violent reactions about other awards show that I should have tweeted instead that I am too lazy to write more about:

Golden Globes Awards: Tina Fey and Amy Poehler killed the fucking show. They were fantastic. I just hoped Lana del Rey won an award for Best Song. But John Legend’s good enough.

Grammy Awards: Sia should have not come home empty-handed. Sam Smith should have handed him one or two. And to people reacting against Beck’s unexpected win for Best Album, he fucking played every instrument on his album.

Other Award Shows: I do not give a damn! Sure Mindy Lahiri and Danny Castellano won best on-screen couple, I wanted The Mindy Project to sweep every TV award! And I need to read 40 more pages of my homework. Goodbye!

P.S. I am going to write in this blog less and less but thank you for reading until the end. I wish I could hug you right now even if I have intimacy issues.


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