My Horrified Review of the 2013 MTV Video Music Awards...but, yes, it's mostly about Miley Cyrus.

Please, put that thing away before
someone gets hurt.

I have always tried to keep up with the music scene....even if that very statement alone is evidence of how out of touch I have actually become.

But, in my defense, I have not stagnated (like some people to whom I happen to be married), forever stuck in the music of the seventies despite the fact that I do agree that era wins the day. After all, we have "Ride Captain Ride" and who amongst us can resist singing along to "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo?" 

Beat that Gen-Xers or whatever the hell you're calling yourselves these days!

I know who Drake is, hate Kanye (but love his music) with the rest of the universe, know the band Fun. always has a period after its name despite its location in a sentence and have been practicing twerking in the privacy of my own home with only the cats to witness....so far.*

I cannot, however, condone what Miley Cyrus did last night. It's the kind of thing that shakes up any parent pretty badly.

I understand her apparent determination to undo a syrupy child star image but what Miley did last night....well, it made Amanda Bynes look like an excellent role model for America's youth. Don't set your dogs on fire, kids but feel free to urinate in pubic while wearing a waist length neon wig because that was preferable -by a lot - to Miley's insane hijinks at the VMAs.

Miley made this look stable.

In a nutshell, she spent far too long on stage prancing obscenely (and I do not use that word loosely) in a nasty fur bathing suit which was later stripped off -- of course -- to reveal a satin flesh colored two piece number that covered her tushie while not enough, more than Lady Gaga's thong did---yet, last night, Gaga had the dignity of Margaret Thatcher compared to Miley.

Do not drag my name into this, I beg of you.

Stop, just stop!!!!

The weirdest part was that she stuck a tongue that Gene Simmons would envy out of her mouth at odd and frequent times, letting it hang to the side in what, I assume, she thought was an erotic manner but just looked like she was having a stroke. 

Combine this with perfunctory crotch touching, the crotch touching of others, the inappropriate use of a foam finger, crazy eye-popping and lots of awful stampeding women with giant teddy bears strapped to their backs and you have a perfect scenario of what I am absolutely certain hell must be like.

I also suggest that the entire live audience get themselves tested for a wide spectrum of STDs after all that. If you were in the first few rows, please seek therapy, as well. I am quite sure there is a Miley Cyrus proviso in your health insurance now that Obama Care is here.

Robin and Miley in hell.

And Robin Thicke, what in the name of Yeezus were you thinking to participate in that insanity? 

Your song "Blurred Lines" is super naughty but oh-sooooooo delicious and and, while I wish you had not "pre-emptively" sued the estate of the incomparable Marvin Gaye for, er, musical confusion, you have more class than that. You did look pretty darn goofy in that striped suit, though.

During Miley's performace, all I could think of was how embarrassed her parents must be but the camera swung over to show her beaming mother in the audience. If that were my kid I would have dragged a fire hose in and aimed it at the stage.

Watch out, Selena. She doesn't
really like you.

I always try to be a
gentleman.

As annoying as Miley was totally gross, was the simpering and smug Taylor Swift. Dancing in the audience and singing along to every goddamn thing, she is the embodiment of the cloyingly sweet but secretly evil girl in high school who you simply cannot catch being a bitch but who quietly and systematically destroys the world.

Did I enjoy anything? Yep, I loved Kanye and Katy and happily sat through an endless Justin Timberlake performance. I cannot tell you the difference between a Back Street Boy and an  N' Synchian but I love me some Justin.

Lady Gaga, herself.

I am currently recovering from last night's spectacle.   I have a few pieces of poster board left over from when the kids were in school and am going to spend the rest of the morning trying to reconstruct Lady Gaga's head gear (think the Flying Nun as interpreted by an angry cubist on LSD) so I can wear it to the supermarket later.

 *This may explain all the recent hairballs I've been finding.

Will Smith and Family watching Miley Cyrus last night at the VMAs. Look at Jaden! Hahahaha!

Why I Love Iowa

Seth and I are seated across from one another at the kitchen table. He is wearing football padding and eye black and I’m dressed entirely in green camouflage salvaged from the pile of old paintball stuff in the garage.  

Between us is a map, several grease pencils in varying colors and a few electronic devices whose bright screens blink as we huddle over our task. The musky scent of stress floats above us as we lean close to draw the first quavery line in red, and another in green. Suddenly Seth leaps to his feet and shakes his fist at the ceiling, “THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!” he sobs, burying his face in his hands. We will soon “Tebow” together by the cats dishes.

What are we doing, you ask. We are simply planning a trip through Manhattan to a distant land called Staten Island for a ten o’clock appointment tomorrow morning. 

And, yes, all of you who have ever driven into the city for a specific time with no room for error, comprehend the enormity of the task, the obstacles we face and the patience and self-forgiveness  (as in “WHY did we use the West Side Highway!!?? We should have taken the tunnel! How could we have been so stupid???”) we must exhibit when it all, inevitably, goes horribly wrong. 

The devices are GPS apps that forecast traffic flow, the pencils mark prospective routes which we must be flexible enough to abandon and that little heap of Hershey Kisses is for when things get really rough.

They're not kidding.

This is how most New York drivers operate and, even though we haven’t lived in the city for nearly two decades, once a New York driver, always a New York driver. You plan, plot, curse, rant, weep and try to outfox every other driver on the road every time you turn the key in the ignition.

We are, actually, attending a funeral and do not wish -- yet again -- to be the people who open the remarkably noisy door of the church once the service is in full swing and in prayerful silence. So, based on realistic conjuring and consultations with everyone we know (including young children), we have decided to leave four hours in advance in order to reach a destination of just 70 miles away.

We left at sunrise. The Taj Mahal has nothing to do with anything.

All of this is why I love Iowa. 

See how nice they are....

We visited there last summer and were amazed to learn that  places actually exist where you calculate how long a trip will take based on something as novel as the number of miles between you and your destination. 

How far away is the Dairy Queen? Three miles, you say? Well, then---see you in three minutes! Can you imagine?

In fact, to anyone from the tri-state area who has experienced apoplexy while inching along the highway for no apparent reason and allotted ample drive time in any other part of the known universe, but will still miss the ceremony and, likely, the part of the reception where the bridal party enters wearing sunglasses, pumping their fists to the strains of “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang---today’s post is for you.

While Iowa lacks certain things (namely the transvestite on the corner who looks just like Drew Carey--oh, wait, that actually is Drew Carey…and people bellowing “Fuhgeddaboutit!!!” directly into each other’s faces as they wait for the nice man to spear their hot dog out of water that hasn’t been changed in forty years), it’s easy and relaxing on the roads.  Not to mention, when you arrive at your destination -- without having burst a blood vessel in your eye from screaming --  there is a guaranteed parking spot with no broken glass to pop a tire or some fresh, warm spit to track in to your carpet, waiting for you.

The contingency plan, in case the miraculous occurs and you arrive at your destination several hours early, is that you scout out a good diner and drink enough coffee to eliminate the need to blink for a month. You are also obligated to talk about it  -- “Can you believe it! We got there in 40 minutes! We didn’t know what to do with ourselves!!!” -- at every family event for the next fifty years.  I’ll let you know what happens.*

You knew I'd get a cat photo in here somehow.

* We left early enough to avoid really bad traffic and had about an hour to spare...so we drank lots of coffee at a weird little diner. I have yet to blink.