Thank you, thank you. Please, sit down, I want to say a few things. I appreciate it all, trust me. The clapping, the stomping, the waving, the winking, even the whistling – as long as it’s on key. Whistling is one of those things that’s either wonderfully melodious, the sublime chirping of well-tuned birds or dangerously unlistenable, the unpleasant piercing of someone playing with scrap metal on a windy day. We know which category you fall into though, sir. So for that, I thank you.
I had some prepared remarks. They were long and painful, with arcane literary allusions and forced references to pop culture. In other words, perfect for the occasion. But they now seem woefully insufficient. There’s nothing like seeing a stranger read your name from inside of a small envelope to provide some much-needed perspective.
I had this whole plan, too. The people I’d thank and in what order. However, now that I’m up here, I realize, it was my name in the envelope and not theirs. They are the ones who ought to be thanking me, kissing my feet, pretending we’re much closer than we are in tedious Facebook posts and chain letters. That’s for them to do, not for me. I should mention some of the people who doubted me, like the person who once asked if English was my first language. I can only say that it’s certainly my last language.
I feel better. I feel better than you. Some of you are just happy to be in the audience. Others are happy to be nominated. For me, it’s not enough. I’m humbled to be here. But by winning an award like this*, you are the ones who should be in awe. I’m looking down at you people and everyone looks the same. You’re dressed the same. You’re sitting with the same posture. You’re even contorting your faces in a similar manner, afraid of what I’ll say next.
I know that I will respect and honor this award, unlike some of you. It’s better in my hands. See? It fits, like it was made to be held in my palm and not yours. Funny how things like that work out sometimes. Had you won this award, you’d be stumbling up the stage and dropping it on your big toe, throbbing through your loafers. Not me. Now that it’s here, in my hands, I understand the concept of a phantom limb. Because that’s what I have experienced up until this moment, for all the awardless years I’ve had to suffer through. I’d be out for coffee, drinks, Arnold Palmers, and people would ask why it looked like I was holding an imaginary trophy. I had no answer.
That is until today.
Again, I didn’t think I wanted a trophy. I was going to take a hacksaw and chop it into little bits, giving everyone in the audience a piece. But I can’t do that now. Look at the craftsmanship? You can barely make out the words “made in china.” It’s not metal, but it’s not plastic either. I should probably wash my hands as soon as I get off stage, it could be toxic. Of course, it’s worth it. This isn’t catch and release fishing. I won’t be throwing it back like a mercury-laden swordfish flopping around between my oars.
Would you look at that? They’re playing me off. And it’s not even a band, but stock music. I guess it wasn’t budgeted for. No surprise when you think of how they skimped on food. I hope no one tried the shrimp, which had a tragic pall to them. I’m actually getting the hook. You can’t see it, but there’s a little man off stage holding a giant cane and he’s steadying himself to reel me in. No need, I’ll leave on my own. Because once you’re a winner, there’s no turning back. This is who I am.
*Most inscrutable LinkedIn comment of the week of September 20, 2020
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