This is me, not relating

Okay, so, I semi-watched the Grammys last night, and I say "semi" because I was simultaneously engaged in a phone call with a friend of mine in Portland for whom the Grammys were not yet on.

She was anxious to see the Police and their much-hyped "reunion" performance, which was a fairly blink-and-you-miss-it affair. They were good, but it was a totally self-indulgent (well, when is it not?) version of "Roxanne," with the newly-shorn and middle-age-buff Sting bending the lyrics to please himself and the whole thing coming off like a much-improved garage-band jam session for the nostalgic. I was partial to last year's opener, the holographic Gorillaz and Madonna, which, together, was just totally far-out and futuristic and, well, way cool.



Later, they had some badly thought-out "tribute" to the Eagles with the prim Carrie Underwood, the bland, syrupy-sweet I'm-as-exciting-as-Velveeta country singin' American Idol winner from a few seasons ago doing embarassing covers of "Desperado" and "Life in the Fast Lane" (so, really? She's been "up and down this highway/haven't seen a Goddamn thing?" Can she even say "Goddamn?") and I simply had to mute it after a few moments to preserve the sanctity of the original versions. No, no, no. God, no. What tripped-out Grammy producer thought THAT one up?? She attempted to really "get down" to the lyrics by squeezing her frosty-shadowed eyes shut and tossing her teased blond locks and stomping her little stilettos once or twice onstage as only a pretty blond virgin can (I'm sorry, but she wouldn't be quite this dull if she got laid), but it didn't help. It was laughable.



"Faster, faster, the lights are turning red." Uh, yeah. Don't think so.

However, Shakira was shakin' all over for God and the Universe, and it was a total trip. It's like, she kind of warms up then gets going, and then all bodily hell breaks loose and I felt myself developing major whiplash from watching her. She's, like, quadrupally jointed or something. But then, if my abs looked that good, I might bare & shake them every chance I got, too.

There was a quick audience shot of Imogen Heap looking like a stoned Mother Nature, with a wild-assed hairdo. But I kinda liked that she was all weird looking.



And I was relieved to hear that Smokey Robinson still had decent pipes, though he's getting that surgically-enhanced look of permanent surprise around the eyes somewhat. Ah, well.

There was also this call-and-vote deal for three identical and not very exciting young Beyonce wannabes who sat in the front row, clutching hands and looking about as perky and hopeful as three Little Sisters during Rush Week. The idea was to phone in your vote and the "winner" would get the honor of a nationally televised Grammy Moment (in this case, a duet) with none other than Justin Timberlake. And this is where I know I'm 41 and not relating, cause I was like, who are they, why do I care, and why does everyone think Justin is all that? I know people do. I have friends that do. And I even like one or two of his earlier frothy pop tunes. But I'm just not wetting my panties over the man. No.

I was glad the Dixie Chicks got recognition. If you haven't seen "Shut Up and Sing," you need to. Period.

Anyway, I'd had enough and got into bed with the NY Times Arts & Leisure section, and there was a blurb about PBS' new "Bram Stoker's Dracula," which I'd considered watching instead of the Grammys. And I shoulda. But then I wouldn't've had the colorful phone coversation with my friend in Portland. Or this blog entry today.

Well, maybe next time.