February 27th, 2017
I watched the now-infamous clip from the Oscars last night. The La La Land crew come back out and say that Moonlight actually won the award for Best Picture. One of the producers rips the envelope out of presenter Warren Beatty’s hand and shows the inside of it to the camera, showing Moonlight to be the proper winner. And when I say “rips” I mean this guy is trying with all his might to not have a screaming breakdown in front of Warren Beatty, legendary actor and guy who couldn’t read the inside of an envelope correctly apparently.
How hard is it to read the card? Apparently, Warren Beatty can’t do it. I would have called him a bunch of names if I were standing out there giving back an award that he incorrectly gave me, live on national television.
I put myself in that guy’s shoes. The producer who yanked that envelope from Warren Beatty’s fossil claw hand. What would I do if that had happened to me? If, say, I had been nominated for a Grammy. Album of the Year. And all the way up to the awards, a bunch of music buffs go, “Mike is really overrated. You watch, he’s totally going to win. It’s so not fair. So many better albums last year.” And then somebody, I dunno. . . David Crosby or whoever, gives out the award and says my name for some reason.
I would be on cloud nine. Even though I really have never been one for the Grammys, let’s be honest. . . it’s sour grapes. I’ve seen what gets nominated and what wins and it’s not for me and never was. But it would be boost my ego to have some sort of vindication! A real “how’s it taste” moment. Giving a heartfelt speech. I wouldn’t even have written a speech out because I didn’t actually think I was going to win. Everybody wanted Beyonce to win and expected her to win. Can’t believe Kanye didn’t run up to grab the award before I got there. I’m slow, it takes a while to get from my chair to the stage.
Then I get offstage and the producers of the Grammy telecast are telling me that there was a major snafu. “You weren’t supposed to win,” they say while showing me that David Crosby or whoever grabbed the wrong envelope and read the wrong card. Why is my name even in a card anyway? I didn’t win for anything other category even though I was nominated for fourteen (!) different categories.
I guess my album did win an award for Best Packaging or something but I was sniffing butane in the cast before the show and they didn’t give it out during the telecast. So I guess Crosby was given that envelope instead.
Then I gotta walk back onstage and hand the damn Grammy back to Beyonce. I have to walk to the podium like a complete and utter moron and give the award to Beyonce, the proper winner. Meanwhile, there’s fucking Crosby standing behind me sheepishly like “I dunno, man. Things happen. Almost cut my hair.” Fuck you, Crosby.
Then I become a meme, which is the cruelest type of fame imaginable. My soul leaves my body. People on social media, “well, yeah. . . Beyonce deserved that award anyway. Mike’s not as good as she is.” People are reenacting the Simpsons scene where Bart freeze-frames the screen to show Lisa where exactly Ralph Wiggum’s heart breaks. That’s me. I’m the Ralph Wiggum of the Grammys.
“I mean. . . whoever heard of Mike Farmer, anyway?”