In the last three, up-is-down and down-is-up days Rocco Di Spirito bailed me out, Emeril Lagasse generously fed me, Jamie Oliver talked child rearing with me for hours. Cat Cora was civil and ... drum roll please ... Rachael Ray was unfailingly polite. I fear I might even have hurt her feelings. They might as well have worked me over with tire irons. I feel an utter beast this morning.

You know, I've mercilessly and enthusiastically made sport of Rocco di Spirito many, many times. I've said--and accused him--of a full menu of truly awful things. Some of them were even true. No matter how bizarre or inexplicable some of his career choices, I always respected him as a gifted cook. He's also--when not flogging frozen products--a thoughtful and insightful judge on Top Chef. But I have to tell you--of ALL the chefs who said they were absolutely, positively, by all means would be DELIGHTED to show up at our travesty of an awards ceremony--at the end of the day, only Rocco and Aaron Sanchez actually made it.Rocco had enough balls and sense of humor about himself to fly out of a snowstorm on an early flight so two miserable pricks who'd done nothing but make fun of him over the years could have him present the "Rocco Award" for "Worst Career Move" to Tyler Florence. Tyler, we were informed at the last minute, encountered a "problem with his calamari for the Bubble Q" and was suddenly needed elsewhere. While on one hand, I was very grateful to Tyler for (at least initially) agreeing to subject himself to our cruel ritual disembowelment, the image of Tyler Florence personally cleaning 500 pounds of squid was difficult to summon. Particularly next to the Sysco truck.I believe Aaron (who has every reason to want to give Ruhlman a kick in the nuts--after the shameful hair-hopper face-off of Next Iron Chef) accepted on Tyler's behalf.

Later, an expansive Mario Batali told us of an e-mail from an FN executive, "thanking him for NOT attending the Clogs." Similar stories filtered back all day. A relieved looking Tyler apologized for missing the gig when we saw him at the Bubble Q thing. "REALLY sorry I missed it, man," he said. "But maybe next year. It's the perfect thing for like 2 O' Clock in the morning--and maybe another venue."

He had the look of a man who just successfully dodged a bullet. And he was, of course, absolutely right about the right time and place for a loud, profane and disrespectful event as ours--only slightly better than a mob of skinheads or crackhead rodeo clowns in the eyes of family friendly outfits like FN and ... Applebees.

Which is why we're doing it all over again today, Saturday, at FIVE PM before the general public. Just me. Ruhlman. And our filthy list of "winners" and Losers--minus all the flattering shit. Yesterday, was the PG version. Today? Apocalypse NOW.

Day One:

Ruhlman showed up late for our all-important preparatory session for the Golden Clog Awards Ceremony last night, by which time I was deep into the negronis. I have only the dimmest of memories of who, exactly, is nominated for what--and NO memory at all of who's supposed to win. I think we ended up deciding on making half of it up as we go along--mid-ceremony. Our "celebrity presenters" have--for the most part, abandoned us for safer pastures.

There has been, I am reliably informed, a terror campaign of late night heavy--breathing phone calls, suggestions of "you'll never work in this town--or ANY town--again" and a wave of second, more sensible thoughts. The affected parties have suddenly remembered previous charitable commitments: (The "Putt For and End to the Heartbreak of Psoriasis" Invitational, the "Pull My Finger To Stop Chronic Flatulence" Bowlin' and BBQ Party--and the Fiji Water For Peace event claiming the lion's share of defectors). Can't say I blame them ...
The guys who've been hanging tough and not knuckling under? You'd be shocked to know (and you will..soon). This whole enterprise looks to be rapidly devolving into a shameful and ridiculous sham ... My (not unreasonable) fear is that Ruhlman and I are going to be stuck up there for an hour--trapped in some unfunny, Shecky and Dino dinner theater kind of a thing--as our audience squirms with embarrassment, waiting for the right moment to flee ...

My other concern, of course, is that Robert (Dinner Inconvenient) Irvine, deranged by his suddenly disappearing biographies and his rudely canceled event--will somehow focus some hormone-fueled rage on ... me--and wrap his tiny little hands around my neck while flexing those oversized guns. My brains would squeeze out of the top of my head like toothpaste coming out of the tube ...