There is a news story at or near the top of every gossip blog’s site today: Taylor Swift did not win any awards at the CMA’s last night. I love celebrity minutiae, but even I can’t find one ounce of interest to spend on this story. Taylor Swift didn’t win an award? Big fucking deal. People don’t win awards all the time. I haven’t won any awards all week but you don’t see DListed.com spending an entire post talking about it.
I do not like Taylor Swift. On the scale of Zooey Deschanel to Shannen Doherty, she’s not as terrible as Zooey “that y tells you I’m quirky” Deschanel, but she’s definitely more annoying than Anne Hathaway, and can’t even approach the midway point of Kristen Stewart Neutrality. Even considering her low status, I can’t understand the universal schadenfreude at her losses last night. Artists (and Taylor Swift) make music. Sometimes people like it, sometimes critics like it, sometimes no one likes it. Most of my favorite audition songs were met with blank stares to critical and patronizing looks from casting directors behind the table. Sure, typing that sentence makes me die inside, but the point is you win some, you lose some. Taylor Swift’s music is always supremely mediocre; it’s nice that the Country Music Awards committee has honored and recognized that, but that doesn’t really make it news.
Between incessant election coverage and Superstorm Sandy (which sounds more like a WalMart competitor than a devastating natural disaster), America is thirsting for good celebrity gossip. I exhausted my internet resources today desperately seeking something ridiculous. A Lindsey Lohan “exhaustion incident.” Paris Hilton offending an entire demographic without any irony. Maybe a Kanye and Kim story that didn’t involve them just wearing Halloween costumes. I need real shadenfreude, not this hollow, Taylor Swift didn’t win some award that a bunch of other people also didn’t win sham. Shame on you, gossip blog community. New York is in bad shape, but LA and London, there is no excuse. I need stars and semi-stars to make messes so I can feel smugly superior enough to power me through the end of this exhausting week, not news of something that didn’t happen. If anyone needs me, I’ll be gazing down on 5thAvenue, hoping to catch a Real Housewife (any wife at all) stealing money from a street urchin.