Like an actress is a big ass fattycakes or an actor is a major homosexual or a child star is precocious enough to merit a pounding. The agenda of the Awards, it seems, is to enable actors to publicly covet themselves as hard-working union-types who rally stoically for each other in the tradition of good communist workers. The event begins, of course, on a long red carpet, lined on one side in screaming sub-teens and seniors from Middle America and on the other in screaming members of the press armed with cameras and pens. Publicists, akin to socialite-esque piranhas, skim ruefully back and forth and up and down the line, eyeballing the media to decide who is most worthy of celebrity interaction. Award shows start early so stars and media meet in the harsh light of the afternoon sun amidst an octopi of cable.