Did anyone see the Grammys the other night?
The funkiest and most unpredictable of all the mainstream award extravaganzas, Sunday's show--though interminably long--did not disappoint.
As I watched the red carpet festivities, I was taken, as always, with how handsome Ricky Martin is. Gay, straight---who cares. He was a feast for the eyes in a dark jacket and narrow tie. Suddenly, the camera pulled away revealing skin tight silver pants with untied combat boots. Space aliens tend to tie their shoes lest they trip leaving their Scientology meetings but my sources also tell me that space chic is always a fashion mistake unless you actually are a space alien (like the Kardashians).
Those pants might have been more appropriate had he arrived in the "egg" that transported Lady Gaga (whose greatest contribution to actual music is the rhyming of the syllables "ga" and "ra") to the evening's event.
Carried by a small army of latex-wrapped zombies, Gaga arrived encased in a womb-like pod that, literally, required piped-in oxygen to prevent her from suffocating (although word on the street is that she doesn't actually need oxygen to survive). I have no choice but to assume that her earth parents gave her absolutely no attention,whatsoever, as a child
"What were you thinkin'
with that giant bite of chicken
Now you gonna die, bitch, die!!"
Barbra Streisand, wearing something salvaged from an Atlanta attic before Sherman and his troops marched through, proved to America that women really shouldn't wear their hair long after 60, that Dr. Frankenstein must have performed her recent neck-tightening because I swear, I could see the bolts and, most unfortunately, that she is losing her voice. Lea Michele of Glee is probably behind all of this.
That spooky little chimpanzee, Justin Bieber, wore a cream-colored velvet suit, two sizes too big. When my boys were little, I'd buy them winter jackets with plenty of extra room so they'd get more than just one season out of them. Someone should remind Justin's parents that he's rich now--they don't have to do that anymore.
He lost "best new artist" to someone no one's ever heard of and, apparently, enraged and technically savvy Bieber-ists vandalized the newcomer's Wikipedia page in pre-adolescent vengeance.
Cee-Lo Green's record label clearly wants to destroy his career because they dressed him like a giant chicken and made him sing with puppets. There's a rumor circulating that one of those puppets (probably the anorexic one singing off-key) was actually Gywneth Paltrow. Frank Perdue reportedly loved the performance.
Mick Jagger was my favorite. The man is nearly 70 years old and, though a little stiff, pouted and strutted across the stage just like he did 40 years ago. The only difference is that, upon completing his performance, he was immediately placed in Lady Gaga's egg which they'd filled with ice and Tiger Balm.
To her credit, Gaga was honored to allow them to transform it into Mick's recovery pod in which, I'm sure he's resting still, monitored by his 65 year old groupies and crunching on Advil like potato chips until he feels better.
To my alarm, I have discovered that I like Katy Perry, wish I had hair and tiny hands like Bruno Mars and while I love Will Smith, am very afraid of his wife and children. P. Diddy has reclaimed his former identity of Puff Daddy for reasons inexplicable to mere mortals, Jennifer Hudson thinks she's the next Aretha and Christina Aguilera is going to, single handedly, play the part of all the munchkins in a new 3-D slasher version of the Wizard of Oz.
My indie-loving sons were very happy with Arcade Fire's win for album of the year but when I called them, specifically to discuss Ricky Martin's pants, we compared notes on many of the evening's performances.
While I had their attention, I took the opportunity to warn them that if they ever find themselves eating in the same restaurant as Eminem to chew their food very carefully or they'd be sorry.....