I can’t divert my eyes from the Oscarnage.

Why do I do this to myself? Every year I loathe the entire spectacle, starting with the announcement of the nominees. The concept, like all “creative competitions” is ill conceived. This we already know. To compare one movie against another, and declare one the winner, and the other, by implication, the loser, is pointless, meaningless, wrongheaded, empty. Yet, in every “creative “ business, some such ritual arises. I’ll never understand it.

So why can’t I use my loathing as a motivation to simply ignore the entire sad mess? Why must I always subject myself to it, to actively feed my loathing? I’ll never understand that either.

The highlight of every Academy Award show, without exception, is the opening monologue by the host du jour. If not for the humor—provided by the host, occasionally by presenters, seldom by the winners—this suffocating exercise in vanity, self-importance and self-congratulation would be devoid of any redeeming qualities.

Is there some Federal mandate that among the nominees for best song there must ALWAYS be at least one upbeat, formulaic, insipid happytune from a 90-minute cartoon movie, invariably including a steel drum somewhere in the arrangement?

Tonight’s evening of excess seems to feature better commercials than that other evening of excess, the Superbowl. Why no hype, no buzz, no “rate the commercials” feature in USA Today the next morning?

Even after I’ve flipped over to the sanitized network version of Dexter to escape the gushing and posturing, I find myself sneaking back for another glimpse of the horror show.

WAIT A MINUTE. They just announced the song from Once won for best song. This never happens. The best song actually won best song. It even beat out the steel drum happytune. Suddenly, for about 20 seconds, all is forgiven. Then it’s back to the marathon of excess and extravagance.

Finally, I summon the will to turn off the tube before they’ve even announced what everyone watching already knows, that the Oscar for best picture will go to No Country For Old Men. I find myself still chuckling, through gritted teeth, at John Stewart’s “GayDolph Titler” joke, and already relishing dreading next year’s cinematrocity.