Mike Redmond Jan. 23 (copy)

So here we are, entering Award Season. I hope you’ve stocked up on popcorn for all those long nights in front of the television watching George Clooney make acceptance speeches.

We’ve already had the Golden Globals. That leaves the Tonis, Enemies, Grandmas, Oscarmayers, Empty-vee Movies and six or seven other awards shows to go.

I must admit the whole awards show thing leaves me a little … well, mystified. I just don’t understand why people are so fascinated by them and make such a big deal out of watching actors and directors and musicians and producers congratulate each other.

Probably this goes back to the time I attended an Oscar party which required me to stand around someone’s living room wearing a tuxedo — in Indianapolis, Indiana, which you may have noticed is neither New York nor Los Angeles and therefore pretty far from the action, awards-wise — eating snacks and listening to people drone on and on about “film.”

Big clue there, for me anyway. In my experience, people who drone on about “film” or, heaven forfend, “cinema,” are almost always “bores.” I much prefer to hang out with those who do as I do and go to the movies.

Not that I do it very often. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen one of the big-time award contender movies this year. Not to mention films or cinemas.

But back to the party. You may wonder why I was there. Simple. There were women there, and I had been persuaded that nothing is more attractive to a woman than a man in a tuxedo. As it turned out, I was misinformed. They were talking about Cary Grant in a tuxedo, not Mike Redmond in one.

I never felt sillier in all my life, standing there in a waiter uniform watching my fellow guests swan about as if they were Hollywood Insiders eating cocktail weenie pigs in blankets. I realize it was all in fun but it seemed kind of excessively pretend, a big game of dress-up, and for what? To watch a TV show about movies.

I’m also no fan of music awards. This goes back to the time when I was a music critic for a newspaper that no longer exists, The Indianapolis News. Often, people who disagreed with my assessment of a concert or a record (boy, there’s a blast from the past — remember records?) would try to prove me wrong by trotting out the artist’s stash of awards, as if that meant anything. All awards mean is that someone or something is extremely popular at a certain point in time — it says nothing about whether they’re actually any good. And remember, this is show business, so it doesn’t hurt if a lot of profit accompanies that popularity. Let us never forget, boys and girls, that the biggest musical frauds of the 20th Century — and that is saying a lot — won a Granny award. Milli Vanilli, anyone?

So off we careen into another season of statuettes and red carpets and glamour and overdressed people standing around living rooms in Indianapolis pretending that in some way, this matters.

Me? I’m keeping the tuxedo in the closet and biding my time until this all blows over. Then it’ll be Opening Day and the baseball season will begin and we can all get back to normal. Or at least back to what passes for normal around here.

Mike Redmond is an author, journalist, humorist and speaker. Send comments to letters@greenfieldreporter.com.