I love award shows. I admit it. I want to see who wears what, who sits with who (err...whom?) and how people react when they lose...and when they win. I enjoy the sappy acceptance speeches and the self congratulatory hoo haw. I can't help it. Don't try to reform me, it isn't going to happen.
There was a picture in the paper this morning of Harold Pinter, outside his home, looking somewhat surprised to be photographed after it was announced that he had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The article was annoying because it made pains to discuss that Margaret Atwood or Alice Monroe should or could someday win a Nobel. Oh Canada, I'll tell you this right now, if Margaret Atwood ever wins a Nobel Prize for Literature I will eat this blog. I will! I will pick it up, put salt on it and EAT MY OWN BLOG. Don't think I won't. Sure, it'll give me indigestion but what the hell, I'll be sick to my stomach anyway...Margaret Atwood just won a Nobel Prize for Literature!
I digress.
The thing is, this photograph of the noble Nobel Prize winner, standing outside his home was as manufactured as all the starlets on all the red carpets in all the Jimmy Choo shoes in all of Hollywood. Everything on Pinter was just *so*. His orthopedic shoes, his corduroy pants, his cap that said "I am an old man...but I am a rebel". It's all show business. And don’t think that this makes Pinter any less of a genius. In my humble opinion, if he is smart enough to play the image game and still write the way he does, with such biting clarity and reality, hell, give him the prize every year.
(beat)
(beat)
(beat)
That third (beat) was for you HAL! (congrats!)
And you can bet that every single year, he'll still be "surprised" to see the photographers outside his door.
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