Grinning for the camera

We ought not to accept awards for doing what we want. Genuflecting before some eminence turns us into schoolboys. If an award cannot be avoided, we must in the event be at least as graceless and discomBobulated as a certain songwriter. Honours are paltry, offered Keith Richards, displaying a savant’s gift for the perfect word.

The trouble with trophies

After food is swallowed, do we remember the food? No. We surrender it to the tender mercies of the digestive system and thereafter to the toilet.

Therein lies a lesson: When the work is done, forget the work. Any work. All work. I’ve talked to my sister-in-law about this. She boards horses. She mucks out stalls. Zen practice is not foreign to her nature.

Our ‘creatives’ are really bad at forgetting the work. Given the least opportunity they’ll stuff themselves into monkey suits and taxi off to an award show. They do this without the least hint of embarrassment.

What happens to a prize five minutes after we get one? Can it be traded for a dollar?

If I can be incentivized by money or pizza, I am in the wrong line of work.