There’s something oddly comforting about the chaos of an awards show. Maybe it’s the glittering gowns that look like someone lost a bet with a glue gun. Maybe it’s the presenters who butcher the teleprompter like it insulted their mother. Or maybe it’s just the promise that something will go off the rails and Twitter will catch fire before the Best Supporting Actor finishes his speech. Either way, I’m here for it. Awards shows are my Super Bowl. But instead of touchdowns, we get shade, snubs, and spectacle — and isn’t that just more satisfying?
For someone like me who grew up with pop culture as both sanctuary and compass, awards shows have always felt like communal rituals. My grandmother watched the Oscars religiously. My mother preferred the Emmys. I, of course, watched everything. Even the Daytime Emmys, where you could witness a soap opera actress cry in an evening gown at 10AM. But there was more than just star-gazing involved. These events, intentionally or not, always mirrored what we valued — or at least what we pretended to.
They’ve also evolved into high drama. Remember the envelope mix-up that gave us “La La Land” winning Best Picture for 30 seconds? That was Shakespearean. The slap heard ’round the Dolby Theater? Straight-up Greek tragedy with an A-list cast. We don’t just watch awards shows anymore; we analyze them, meme them, and emotionally invest like they’re family court hearings with sequins.
What fascinates me is how awards shows walk the line between celebration and performance art. At their core, they’re supposed to recognize excellence. But what we actually get is a glitter-drenched Hunger Games. Publicists wage quiet wars backstage. Nominees clap like they didn’t just lose the category they were emotionally invested in. And somewhere, at any given moment, someone is performing the delicate dance of looking grateful but not robbed. That’s talent.
Don’t get me wrong — I love them. But I also love to roast them. It’s a sacred balance. I want to see who got snubbed so I can rage-tweet and feel intellectually superior. I want to yell “She’s never been nominated before?!” like I’ve been running a spreadsheet on her whole career. And I want to see who wore a dress made entirely of organza and bad decisions. The red carpet is its own ecosystem — part fashion show, part fever dream. I once saw someone wear a chandelier. Not carry one. Wear one.
Then there’s the hosting gig — a cursed role that ages celebrities ten years in one night. You have to be funny but not offensive. Political but not polarizing. Cool but not aloof. I wouldn’t do it for less than six figures and a therapist on standby. But when it works, it’s magic. When it doesn’t, it’s even better.
What makes awards shows uniquely entertaining is how they expose the weird, contradictory soul of Hollywood. It’s this blend of earnest gratitude and performative modesty, activism in couture, and glamour with a side of existential dread. A teary thank-you speech from someone holding a golden man statue while a countdown clock blinks wrap it up is exactly the absurdity I signed up for. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve watched someone thank both God and their acting coach in the same breath, while their ex seethes in the fourth row.
But for all the criticism — the lack of diversity, the predictable winners, the bloated runtime — there’s still something magical about watching these messy, glittering showcases. They remind me that culture is alive. That we care. That we fight about art because it matters, even if we sometimes lose the plot. And, for better or worse, these shows still help shape narratives: who’s “in,” who’s “over,” who just made a comeback, and who’s about to disappear until the next awards cycle.
And let’s not ignore the emotional moments. Like when an actor finally wins after decades of being ignored, and you feel weirdly proud even though you’ve never met them. Or when a performance brings the room to tears — not the audience, the room. The industry. That’s rare, and when it happens, it’s a reminder that awards shows can still be meaningful — between the stumbles and the snark, there’s sincerity.
Still, I’ve also learned not to take them too seriously. Half the winners are forgotten by the time dessert hits the afterparty. The other half become trivia questions for people like me to shout answers to during reruns. (Who won Best Supporting Actress in 2001? Marcia Gay Harden. You’re welcome.)
There’s something lovely, though, about the fact that I’ve now shared these moments with Matthew. He didn’t grow up obsessed with awards shows the way I did, but he’s learned to appreciate their madness. We’ll make snacks, cuddle up, and whisper-shout over red carpet commentary. Sometimes I’ll pause to explain who someone is and why their win matters. Other times we just laugh at the forced banter. It’s become our tradition — equal parts mockery and celebration. It’s one of the small joys I didn’t realize I needed: sharing this over-the-top ritual with someone who lets me geek out without judgment.
At their worst, awards shows are ridiculous vanity projects. At their best, they’re a time capsule. But for me, they’ve always been about connection — to culture, to history, to my younger self watching the Oscars from a too-small couch in West Texas, wondering if I’d ever be part of something that felt that big, that bold, that shiny. Turns out, I already was. Because watching, reacting, critiquing — that’s a kind of participation too.
So yes, awards shows are a mess. But they’re my mess. And I wouldn’t miss them for the world. Or the memes. Especially the memes.