In Which Michael Loses An Oscars Bet And Humiliates Himself Publicly

I know that the Academy Awards is a pretty flawed indicator of movie quality — for proof positive, note that How Green Was My Valley beat both Citizen Kane and The Maltese Falcon for Best Picture, or that the works of Jean-Claude Van Damme have been universally snubbed — but that doesn’t stop me from getting psyched up every year for the Oscars. For my money, it’s America’s most exciting event that takes place in a shopping mall. (Yes, the Dolby theater is situated in a mall for tourists; hidden behind the artful drapery of the red carpet are a L’Occitane and a Kelly’s Coffee and Fudge.)

So every year, Fox and I print out the awards list, make predictions, and place a wager on who will predict the most winners. (And somehow, every year, even though Fox has generally seen less of the nominees than I have, she usually comes out on top.) This year, we decided to spice up the wager by raising the stakes a bit — we decided that whoever lost would be compelled to go out in public wearing a Jaromir Jagr jersey, and do a dramatic reading of a truly terrible poem that Fox had written about Jaromir Jagr for an assignment back in high school.

So, with the table appropriately set, we filled out our ballots…

…let our pup, Lucy, take a turn on the red carpet…

…and sat down for the show.

The proceedings started promisingly enough, with Neil Patrick Harris performing a very strong opening number. We really enjoyed it…

…even if it didn’t impress Eddie Murphy.

All night, we seesawed back and forth with the lead. Every time I would notch a point with a category like Sound Editing, Fox would fire back with a Costume Design and tie it right back up.

“Daddy, Mommy are nail Costume Design eight year runnin. And it maek sense. Look how she are dress me for afta-partay.”

Thanks, Lucy. Anyhow, Fox and I went back and forth all through the (neverending) evening, until finally, we were tied, 13-13, going into the announcement of Best Picture. And then the unthinkable happened: one of my favorite movies I’d seen all year won the award…and I hadn’t picked it. Cynically, I’d gone with Boyhood, even though the film didn’t excite me outside of its concept, and I’d actually loved Birdman.

And Fox, who’d only seen ONE out of all the Best Picture nominees (The Grand Budapest Hotel, if you were wondering)…

…had chosen Birdman, making her the winner.

And that was why, this past Thursday, we came out to Verde Mexican Kitchen & Cantina (site of our great Tequila Tour of 2013), and I did this performance:

Sigh — I’ll have my revenge next year. Perhaps if I just avoid actually watching any of the nominees, I’ll do better…