Elliott Smith – Ballad of Big Nothing
Matt and I have a long-running Oscar feud. It started when we shared an apartment (with G) in Brooklyn, and he pressured me into wagering on the Academy Awards. I had sworn off betting on events ever since I lost a quarter (and nearly cried) betting with my mom’s boyfriend on the Vikings to beat the Steelers in the Superbowl in 1975. But Matt was relentless, calling into question my manhood, etc., so to shut him up, I agreed to bet. And promptly got my ass kicked.
After we both moved out to LA, the Oscars became a highly-anticipated yearly event. I quickly realized that the point was not to vote for the best picture, best actor, etc., but to vote for who was going to win, and once I made that psychological adjustment, my average went way up. It may seem a subtle difference, but it’s a crucial one. Betting on the best is an entirely subjective experience – no answer is inherently right, and no amount of arguing will change somebody’s mind. But betting on who will win opens up the debate to all sorts of factors that have almost nothing to do with who was “better”. There’s all kinds of politics and truisms that get thrown into the equation (Best Supporting Actor is a well-respected old guy who’s being honored for a career instead of a role (Jack Palance) – Best Supporting Actress is a “cookie”, somebody cute and young, regardless of the role or the film (Marissa Tomei)) and the arguments that rage really can and do change people’s minds).
And that’s really most of the fun. The broadcast itself is always a good time (in a really boring sort of way), but it’s the month between when the nominees are announced and when the awards are given that is the real entertainment. Matt and I always make a preliminary bet the day the nominations are announced and then dig into our research and psychology and gamesmanship for a month trying to get an edge and trying to psyche out our opponent. We believe in full disclosure – all information is freely shared – ever since Matt discovered during the broadcast, when the ballots are locked, that Stephen Sondheim had written the nominated song from Dick Tracy and just about had to jump out the window in frustration.
Anyway, once I got the hang of it, I started on a tear, beating Matt five years in a row. As we always point out, since we’re inevitably both in a pool with other people too, winning isn’t as important as beating the other guy. If G or Leslie wins the ultimate pot (unlikely, but theoretically possible, I suppose), then that’s fine, as long as I beat Matt. And Matt, bless his heart, feels the same way. He doesn’t care where he ends up in the standings as long as it’s ahead of me.
So, anyway, I was on a tear – the Lance Armstrong of Oscar betting – until the 1997 Oscars (held in the spring of 1998). That was the only time in the past 10 years or so that Matt and I didn’t watch the broadcast together, and the reason was that my son Owen had just been born and we were still in the hospital recovering. Matt beat me badly that year, and generously offered the fact that I was a bit distracted as consolation, but he beat me fair and square, and I was proud to give him my money.