So my Emmy statuette arrived yesterday. My Real Bedford Falls documentary co-producer/director Stu Lisson was kind enough to drop it off at my apartment. He wanted to take a picture of me unboxing it, but I refused to give in to his request. I was masked and stayed on the other side of the glass in the lobby, as my son Colin is currently in isolation after testing positive for COVID for the second time in three months. (Fortunately, his symptoms are mild—knocking on the wood of my forehead.)
While walking in the hallway, carrying the rectangular box, hugging it close to my torso, I had a flash; the package reminded me of a cremation urn, similar in size and shape. It gave me pause. The object marks one of the best moments in my career, but it also foreshadows a fate I can’t escape. Dark thought, I know.
Once inside my apartment, I opened the box and took a quick glance, making sure the text at the base was correct and my name wasn’t misspelled. I then tucked it in the back of my bedroom closet, behind extra belts, pairs of long underwear, summer shirts, and miscellaneous computer cables.
I didn’t even take a picture of it. And I usually do not post accolades like this on social media. The images you see here were taken by my wife Pamela, who said something like, “It’s worth celebrating. It’s a beautiful memento and you might not win another one in the future.”
I thought the same thing. I don’t want to be covetous, but the goal is to collect a couple more Emmy awards during the remainder of my career. However, I also know one regional Emmy for an indie documentary short could be it for me—marking the highest honor I will ever achieve.
And if that’s the case, I want to acknowledge the moment, let it seep in, and be grateful for it. And then get busy working on the next thing.
I’m also storing the Emmy in the closet to keep it away from Colin. If know if the hardware was left out in the open, he would grab it and line it up next to his other figures. And in a matter of time, the poor gilded woman would be wingless.