Oscar madness leads to dreams of glory

April 01, 2002|BY KEVIN CLAPP

Watching the Academy Awards proceed at a clip only a terrapin could envy, I realized that, yes, I need an awards ceremony all my own.

And a sequel.

More on that later. For now, let's explore the possibility of a grand, glitzy, glamorous ode to me.

Just think of the categories ... (is that a harp I hear in the background?):

Best Costume Design - Another close race, between vamping as Posh Spice on Halloween; going in character to a November Bob Dylan concert in Philly; and appearing as a groom in October (the most nominated performance by far).

Best Performance in a Social Setting - A close race between negotiating conversations with total strangers at the Kasperowicz wedding in July and my own nuptials in October. Lagging behind: An ill-advised early May trip to the grocery store involving three converging shopping carts, a two-for-one ice cream sale and a leaking half-gallon of milk.


Smoothest use of Debit when Credit would have worked just as well - No contest here. A December trip to the movies is just too fresh in voters minds to be denied against an August tux rental and February student loan payment. Though experts agree February represented a far more dexterous use of plastic.

Imagine the possibilities, without any campaigning of voters (wife, mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother) since the outcome is entirely predetermined.

But what to call these awards? We could name them (cue timpanic drum roll) The Kevvies - nah, too gay (relax, the happy kind); The Mes - too fey; The Unbelievably Pretentious Memorials to a Bloated Sense of Self-ies - touch.

Wait! I've got it: The Clappers! (Look, they're pretty AND functional.)

Never again would I need to flip a switch in my home. And while the symbols of my critical success would be on display it would be in a regular Joe, non-egotistical way.

Except, of course, for the gold-plated lifetime achievement Clapper, which will rest in a trophy case polished thrice daily, presented for an eternity of making myself into the best me imaginable.

Now, when the inaugural presentation of The Clappers - on time and under budget, of course - are in the books, this becomes the conundrum:

What to do for an encore?

And for this I need a sequel, a sequel to me to make for a triumphant returns to The Clappers.

This is where it becomes risky. I don't want to become a cheesy facsimile of myself. Sure, I'm pretty much guaranteed a boffo opening weekend - see Blade II - but I want some staying power, a good two, three weeks at the top.

More Godfather II. Less The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas.

So I need an edge, maybe a nice, dark brood to take myself in a radical new direction.

Definitely need a damsel. A damsel in peril, captured by dwarfs. Perilous dwarfs, yes. With evil monkey henchmen...

No, cut evil monkey henchmen. Add ... giant robotic butterflies capable of generating deadly gusts from giant robotic wings.

Much better. And of course dwarfs and butterflies will be thwarted while I'm also running a marathon, doing several piles of dirty dishes and volunteering at a soup kitchen for wayward horticulturists.

Why horticulturists, you ask? Dare I say, why not?

Compassion, action, thrills, chills, heroism, dark undertones. And flashbacks to childhood. It has to have flashbacks to childhood, establishing my path early even as classmates taunted me.

"Four eyes!"


Oh yes, quite a sequel it will be, rising to a crescendo unequaled in Hollywood and arriving in plenty of time for consideration for the second annual Clapper Awards, originating on tape delay from the basement of the VFW, with Pauly Shore and Alf manning the red carpet.

Why, there's only one thing left to say.

Trilogy, baby. Trilogy.

Kevin Clapp is a writer in Lifestyle and owns a grand total of one Clapper, tucked away in a box gathering dust at the bottom of a closet. It was a gift. He can be reached at

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