Every single other media outlet -- from GQ to TV Guide -- is doing it, so why can't we? On this last weekday before the Oscars, we present the Rasco P. Soultrain Awards, as a tonic to all those other phony ass-kissing affairs.

Famous Person of the Year

The awarding of this Rasco sparked much spirited debate at Fametracker HQ. Of course, the candidates were plentiful: who, for example, better exemplifies the strange nature of fame, here in the twenty-first century, than Mr. Richard Hatch, who went from unknown corporate prick to world-famous island-dwelling prick to world-famous cuddly and newly svelte gadfly in the span of thirteen episodes? He or any of his Survivor mates (okay, not B.B.) could easily have earned this Rasco -- never have so few become so famous so quickly for doing so little.

Of course, last year's winner, Jennifer Lopez, made a strong case for a repeat. With a new album, a new movie, a new nickname, and a new headline-generating romance, she singlehandedly dragged fame whoring to a new J. Lo. Similarly, her former consort, Puff Daddy -- while not as universally famous as his ex -- sports an impressively disproportionate fame-to-talent ratio that automatically makes him a strong contender in this category. And we can't discount Jennifer Aniston, sitcom darling, exorbitant-salary negotiator, celebrity wedding participant, and soon-to-be ex-wife of the world's sexiest man.

Then, however, we reminded ourselves that the primary criterion for the Famous Person of the Year award is not shameless fame mongering. (If that were the case, it would be Madonna in a walk. Again.) That is only the secondary criterion. The primary criterion is the person who, over the past year, won the fame race. Who scooted most efficiently up the steep side of Fame Mountain. Who, in short, kicked everyone else's fame asses. When we considered this, we realized that, in the end, there was really only one choice.

In this season of awards, we'd like to add one more: congratulations, Russell Crowe.

Shall we revisit our Fame Audit of Russell Crowe, dated November 12, 1999 -- pre-Insider, pre-Gladiator, pre-Meg? Back then, we said this:

"Yes, I know: we should just be patient. Russell Crowe's time will come. After all, wasn't it clear that, among the many fine actors in L.A. Confidential, he was the only one with both chops and charisma enough to burn a hole through sheet metal? We weren't the only ones to figure that out, right?...Come on in, Russell. Get out of the cold. Be a leading man. We're not saying you should do a romantic comedy with Kim Cattrall or anything; we're just worried that the window is closing, and we may lose you like we lost Ray Liotta. We don't have any fancy connections. But if someone can talk to someone and make Russell Crowe a big star before this time next year, we'd owe that person a big favour."

So...it looks like we owe someone a big favour.

At the time of the Audit, we pegged Crowe's actual fame at the level of Bill Pullman, and pegged his deserved level of fame as, ahem, Patrick Swayze. It's probably fair to say that, on the great oval track of fame, Crowe has not only lapped Patrick Swayze two or three times by now, he's actually riding Swayze bareback. Not only did he have the performance of the year -- say what you will about Gladiator (what we will say is that it sucked), but Crowe lit that movie up like a Roman candle -- but he was at the centre of the scandal of the year as well. Could there have been a more dramatic trumpet blast of arrival for Crowe than the despoiling of Hollywood cherub Meg Ryan, and subsequent theft of her from puffy star of yesteryear Dennis Quaid? This year, Crowe hit Hollywood like a marauding Viking, veritably snarling out, "I'm here to steal your parts and your women!" Throw in the rock band -- every male celebrity must now, by California law, join a rock band -- and the bizarre peripheral rumours (Crowe Target of Blackmail Scheme! Crazed Fans Plan to Kidnap Crowe!) and you have a man who is assaulting the ramparts of fame from all angles.

And so we award this Rasco to Russell Crowe. Because he is as famous as he wants to be. Because he's finally as famous as he should be. And because he'd probably steal it from us if we didn't.

Most Undeservedly Famous Person of the Year

Much like last year, this Rasco category was bursting its seams with qualified candidates. Between the proliferation of media outlets overexposing personalities, plus-ones, wannabes, and no-hopers at all levels of debatable celebrity, and the impending SAG strike making instant movie stars out of every Tom, Dick, and Colin, it seems as if there are undeservedly famous people everywhere you look. There was Bijou Phillips playing a pubescent groupie in Almost Famous, and getting dentures in Jane, leaving us all wondering what she'd ever done -- apart from being spawned by a Papa -- to make us pay her any attention. And what about Sisqo, not only working the red carpet outside the MTV Movie Awards but actually landing a non-cameo role in a teen movie on the strength of a single, grating novelty hit single? And then there's the fact that, in light of all the disappointing flops that characterized 2000, quite a few formerly deservedly famous people have tarnished their images and reputations, too. After Normal, Ohio, how much respect can we still have for John Goodman? Likewise, hasn't Bette Midler more than outlived her celebrity usefulness?

Worthy nominees all, but in the end, we at Fametracker came to realize that there were no more repellent fame whores than Paris and Nicky Hilton. Consider the facts.

First, when the first day dawned on the year 2000, the Hilton sisters contributed nothing to society. They were not performers or entertainers of any description. Granted, at the age of sixteen, Nicky has no obligation to distinguish herself professionally -- and Paris, at twenty or so, little more than that. But considering their tender age and apparent lack of saleable talents, why should we know who they are at all? Well...

...because they're rich. Which brings us to our second point. They're nouveau riche heiresses, to be precise, which makes them idle socialites. They go to parties. They get sloppy drunk -- or, as some have suggested, "drunk" (if you know what we mean). They show up on Page Six. Paris ends up dating Edward Furlong. Nicky...is also ubiquitous.

Third, they've somehow managed -- despite all logic and reason -- not only to be profiled in the non-tabloid press (a long and detailed story in Vanity Fair last fall), but also to get cast in a film (Paris will appear in Sweetie Pie); both of them are now runway models who were all over the fall collections, and Paris has appeared in a national print ad campaign for some minor brand of jeans.

Why? Why do we know who they are? Why is there a sort-of fan site on the internet cataloguing their actions and collecting scans of their images? Because they're rich and idle, apparently. And blonde. And somewhat skanky. The editors at the Post feature them so often that they must have some sense that average Americans get some grim pleasure tsk-ing at the Hilton sisters' misdeeds and hemlines.

Our point, finally, is this: no one should care what the Hilton sisters drink or wear or what declining teen-boy actors squire them around. The Hilton sisters should have been content to be very rich, and should not have fulfilled their apparent ambition to be very famous, too. They are the most undeservedly famous people of the year.

Newgoer of the Year

Perhaps we should begin with a mea culpa, to say how sad we are that last year's Rasco award for Newgoer of the Year Award ("Newgoer" being the opposite of "newcomer"--you see what we've done there?) went to Britney Spears. Sad for two reasons: (a) Ms. Britney is obviously still very much with us, meaning that our usually unerring famedar badly misread her longevity; and (b) Ms. Britney is still very much with us, meaning...well, more of Ms. Britney. (If her next single is as much of a comedown from "Lucky" as "Lucky" was from "Hit Me Baby, One More Time," then it will probably sound something like a three-minute chorus of yelping dogs.) Last year we also predicted imminent obscurity for Kid Rock (we're still confident on that one), Jenna Elfman (sounds about right), David Duchovny (you can only survive so long in flashbacks), Joaquin Phoenix (er, oops), and some guy named Eminem (and when's the last time you heard anything about him?).

You might think we'd be chastened in selecting this year's Newgoer, but in fact we're downright giddy: 2000 presented a whole new, piping-hot batch of potential disappearing acts. It hardly seems worth pointing out that while Survivor the series will apparently live on for years to come, the names Gervase, Rudy, Dirk (if you saw him on Blind Date -- ouch -- then you know where we're coming from) et al likely will not, replaced in our minds by Colby, Jerri, and Kentucky Joe, and, in a few months, Ward, Ron, and Darby, or whatever. And these are the actually famous ones among the crop of reality TV "celebrities." Quick -- name the winner of Big Brother. We'll give you a hint: it starts with an "E," and ends with, well, the last episode, sometime back in August.

Similarly, the audible splat with which Ricky Martin's new album arrived does not portend well for the man who's looking more and more like the writ-large version of Gerrardo (Mr. "Rico Sauve"). Among movie stars, Winona Ryder notably spent the year churning out horrible flops, and her ongoing scramble for celebrity boyfriends/fame preservers now has her hooked up with ex-Whiskeytown singer Ryan Adams -- not exactly Johnny Depp on the paparazzi-attraction scale.

But last year's miscue has chastened us -- clearly, in awarding the Rasco to Britney Spears, we let wishful thinking overrule cold logic, and, as a result, we overshot the mark. We've now learned our lesson; for example, that musty odour you smell is, in fact, the Backstreet Boys, but it's probably unrealistic to hope that they'll be completely wiped from the public memory as earlier as this time next year. (On the other hand, the U.N. reports that the total erasure of the Spice Girls from our collective consciousness is now eighty-five percent complete.) And so this year we give the award to a safe bet, someone who already has one foot in obscurity and the other foot on a banana peel: Jessica Simpson.

Dear Jessica: Since you're about exactly half as talented and half as appealing as Britney, it makes sense that you should last about half as long. And your marketing angle -- I'm just like Britney, but without the in-your-face sexuality! -- isn't, oddly, working out as well as planned. As you told Entertainment Weekly of your new album, Sweet Kisses: "I haven't had the success of the other girls....This album is crucial. It's either me staying where I am, or taking off to the top." Jessica, we hate to be the ones to point this out, but there is a third, not entirely unlikely, option.

The William H. Macy Memorial HITG! Graduation

How does one mark the transition from Hey! It's That Guy! -- a designation reserved for hardworking, generally anonymous character actor -- to full-on star? For William Fichtner, it was about halfway through The Perfect Storm, when he stood his ground against John C. Reilly and did so while working a pair of hip-waders and no shirt. (And, despite what one might surmise from the description, he looked good.) For Donal Logue, it was sometime after The Tao of Steve made him an unlikely sex symbol, possibly leading to his landing his own sitcom on Fox. For this year's winner, it was the first time someone referred to Nurse Betty as one of his favourite "Allison Janney movies."

If you only know Janney from her role as Claudia Jean "C.J." Cregg on The West Wing, we should school you as to the dues she's paid in the HITG! trenches. A two-year stint on Guiding Light was the prelude to a few juicy film roles like "Lady Cop" (in The Cowboy Way), "The Woman" (you know? That one? In the Miracle on 34th Street remake?), and "Party Guest (Uncredited)" (in Wolf). Having secured a berth in Stanley Tucci's repertory company, Janney's first substantial film role was in Big Night, as Ann, the florist on whom Primo has a secret crush. Though the role wasn't exactly pivotal to the plot, it did hint at the Janney we would eventually come to know and love -- independent, self-assured, charming, funny, and kind.

Janney's next several film roles -- establishing her as a more or less typical female Hey! It's That Guy! -- can be divided into two types: the dizzy broads (The Ice Storm, Primary Colors, 10 Things I Hate About You) and the ball-breakers (Private Parts, The Associate, The Object of My Affection, Six Days, Seven Nights). These roles either found her losing her skirt or making inappropriate sexual jokes (the former category), or smoking imperiously while making coldly cutting remarks (the latter).

We're not entirely sure when we started looking for Janney's name in the credits of upcoming films and/or squealing with delight when she appeared in a movie about which we were otherwise pretty indifferent (American Beauty, I'm yawning in your direction). We can, however, pinpoint the moment when we fell madly in love with her: Drop Dead Gorgeous. In an otherwise disappointingly formulaic satire of teen beauty pageants, Janney's wit and impeccable timing allow her to steal every scene in which her Loretta appears. Janney plays trailer-park denizen Loretta without once resorting to cliché; granted, Loretta comes on to anything in pants and curses like a sailor, but she does it with such aplomb and joie de vivre. Leaning over a hotel railing at the aftermath of an unrefrigerated-shellfish disaster, her response is to inform Kirsten Dunst's Amber, in her broad Minnesota accent, "I got some!" Simply put: she rocks.

Clearly, though, C.J. is Janney's breakout role -- and what a great role it is, too. C.J. is like Big Night's Ann, if she were born thirty years later and had an extensive university education. Like Ann, C.J. is independent, self-assured, charming, funny, and kind; she's also smart, tough, wry, resourceful, and sexy. She's equally convincing wrangling the fractious press corps as she is announcing to a room full of her colleagues that she's good in bed. C.J.'s confident in her abilities and her convictions but she's still ready to learn new things and hasn't -- despite surviving her boss's Presidential campaign -- lost her sense of wonder.

C.J. Cregg is one of the coolest female TV characters of all time, and Allison Janney has portrayed her so perfectly that we can't imagine anyone else in the role. It's been a while since we yelled, "Hey! It's That Guy!" at the sight of Allison Janney; long may she and C.J. reign.

Most Likely to Become a Personality Before the Rascos are Awarded Again

The slide from celebrity (famous for some sort of achievement or talent) to personality (famous for, well, being famous) is a short and slippery one. And when you start out as a supermodel -- a dubious "talent" to begin with -- you know you're just one false step or one new laugh line away from the land of the professional Personality.

Which brings us to Cindy Crawford.

Unceremoniously jettisoned by Revlon this year, Cindy's modeling days are clearly in their twilight. Sure, she still shows up in Ellen Tracy ads and Dannon yogurt commercials, but it's clear that she's made the subtle but irrevocable switch from "I Look Good" to "I Still Look Good." For most celebs, the threat of imminent Personality-dom is very bad news, but for Crawford, it's actually good news. See, models rarely make the transition from celebrity to personality because so many of them lack...well, a personality. (Imagine watching Linda Evangelista host a talk show. Okay, stop, for the love of all that is holy.)

Crawford, however, has always stood out from others professional mannequins in her ability to cannily market herself as a brand: Cindy Crawford Inc. And, as the original host of MTV's House of Style, she already has a few Personality points under her belt. Now all she has to do is co-host a telethon, produce A Cindy Crawford Christmas for E!, and/or secure a semi-recurring gig on Hollywood Squares, and her journey to the dark side will be complete.

Lifetime Achievement Award

Lifetime Achievement Rasco is bestowed upon the person who best personifies the idea of pure fame -- fame, in other words, not derived from any particular talent or product or performance. Last year, the Rasco was awarded to John F. Kennedy Jr., on the rationale, basically, that he was destined for fame well before his birth or even his conception, and that he would have been famous his whole life long regardless of what he did or did not accomplish as an adult (which, one could argue, may also be true of the Hilton sisters, above).

This year, there wasn't such a clear-cut second-generation famer whose iron grip on fame could qualify him or her for an award in lifetime achievement, so we were forced to turn our attention to those people whose fame has persisted long after their tangible accomplishments have been lost to the mists of time. And the nominating committee had a hard time finding someone who even fit that bill...right up until the telecast of the Golden Globes.

"What is Elizabeth Taylor doing there?" we wondered aloud. "She hasn't starred in a movie since she played Wilma's mom in The Flintstones. What has she done for me lately that she'd get to announce the Best Picture winner?" Then we remembered the rambling, incoherent, drunken introduction to something or other that Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan had given earlier in the show, and we remembered that the Golden Globes are, in so many ways, the bizarro Oscars, and that we shouldn't go looking for merit amongst its participants since we would surely be disappointed.

Then Taylor came out and...well, we all saw it, in one place or another, right? How she went to open the envelope without reading out the nominees first? How she talked back to the audience when some of them helpfully tried to explain the task at hand? How Dick Clark had to come out from backstage and coach her through it? And then how she squealed, "Gladiator!" in that queer voice? Like, okay, we know she's had brain surgery and stuff, and we feel bad for her, but...didn't they have a rehearsal? And why was she even there? Why not get a real movie star to do it instead of some poor, incapacitated "legend" well into her dotage?

Perhaps needing the money to cover her medical expenses, Taylor appeared this year, alongside fellow Hollywood "legends" Joan Collins and Debbie Reynolds, in a TV movie aptly titled These Old Broads. Reportedly, Taylor required that her lines be displayed on cue cards on the set, which reduces her co-starring role in a movie (of sorts) to little more than an extended SNL skit. But at least she's done now something in the millennium to earn her keep other than produce some foul perfume and get airbrushed in the print ads for same.

But we just keep coming back to the Golden Globes. Clearly, this was a case where there was no earthly reason for her to be there other than that some people in the crowd might vaguely remember that she was in Butterfield 8, even though all she's done since the '80s is play "Herself" in various tributes and benefits and documentaries and the like. Her appearance at the Golden Globes really just reminded us that...well, that she isn't dead yet, but also that she's Hollywood Royalty -- which, more often than not, means you can show up ill-prepared, make an ass of yourself, and then charge Dick Clark six grand for your hair and makeup.