Another Bitchy Review: The 2018 Grammy Awards

Last night at the 2018 Grammy’s, Bono – gray roots showing and looking (and acting) more like the Crypt Keeper every day, escaped his attendants and wandered out on stage during Kendrick Lamar’s pyromaniacal opening act. Obviously confused, he quickly retreated. 

Dave Chappelle, who, apparently, needs his name emblazoned on every article of clothing he owns, soon followed. Rambling a bit, he, too, seemed slightly confused, also disappearing quickly.

Giant duck or swan?

I, myself, had been a bit baffled by Mr. Lamar but it all made sense to me when, soon after, Lady Gaga sang her huge hit about having “one hundred million reasons to fall asleep.” Wait—what? Those aren’t the lyrics? Well, they should be since I nodded off frequently throughout the evening. I did kind of like Gaga’s piano even though it had, obviously, been hit by a poultry truck on the way over to Madison Square Garden.

Rihanna at work

I have, in previous reviews, admitted that I may be getting too old and farty for these musical award shows. Known to scroll for crock pot recipes on my phone during performances that bore me, last night was no different despite many of the chaotic production numbers reminding me of performances from variety shows of the past. For me, this further confirmed the creaky adage that there really is nothing new under the sun--except twerking hadn’t been invented yet, profanity didn’t need to be bleeped from song lyrics and, in those days, Rihanna might have been arrested – mid zumba demonstration—for public indecency. And, while I have finally come to like the song “Despacito” and harbor a strange fascination for the gentleman known as “Daddy Yankee,” I was distracted by the endless crotches and ass cheeks to the point where I forgot what they were singing. 

Miley in 2013 with Robin Thicke.

Miley, last night.

Naughty stuff, but the vice squad didn’t storm the stage because we’ve all become numb to this sort of behavior. Thank you, Miley Cyrus who, last night, dressed for a performance of “La Boheme” in contrast to the nude two-piece she wore to the 2013 VMA awards while rubbing up to Robin Thicke's privates during a hilariously shocking performance of “Blurred Lines.” Thicke’s wife divorced him soon after.  

Jim or Philip Seymour?

Since I did doze a bit,  I do have several questions about what went on last night: Why was Jim Gaffigan pretending to be Philip Seymour Hoffman? Why did Sarah Silverman travel though a wind tunnel that puffed up both her hair and boobs to alarming and uncharacteristic proportions? Is Childish Gambino really childish? Why does Scissor spell her name SZA? Why did the airlines lose Pink’s luggage and from which lunch lady did she borrow her outfit? Why was Rihanna wearing a shower curtain early in the evening? Why was Sam Smith wearing a lab coat and pajamas? Why didn’t Elton John, dressed as an extra from a Marvel Comics movie, sing his own song? What motivated Sting to untangle himself from an extended session of tantric sex with his wife long enough to show up for the telecast and, most importantly, why won’t my husband, Shemar Moore, return my calls?

What the heck, Sarah?

Regular readers of my reviews know I love Gary Clark who – in a glorious purple velvet suit -- paid tribute to the recently deceased Chuck Berry. Chuck Berry, if you’ve forgotten, is known both for the groundbreaking style with which he approached early rock and roll as well as for placing multiple video cameras in the stalls of the lady’s room of the motel he once owned and -- while we’re at it -- will someone please remember that Jay-Z, who is treated like the second coming of Christ, once sold crack on the streets of Brooklyn, New York.

Patti Lupone still has the pipes to awe the crowd, Cindy Lauper, even singing background for the ever- grubby Kesha (yes, I know what happened to her)) and the diminutively dynamic Bruno Mars always warm my cold heart.

I kind of missed this....

Last night’s audience, responding with more recognition to the far, far less accomplished Ben Platt (one-time Tony winner for a leading role in a Broadway play) than for the legendary Leonard Bernstein, was missing the obnoxious front row dance stylings of Miss Taylor Swift. Instead Lorde sat like a zombie, apparently dead until someone waved Elton John's sneakers under her nose.

No, not this Shaggy....

This one!

Refusing to be subjected to anything about politics and/or current “movements” that pinned wilted white roses to everyone’s lapels, and preferring an era when the Grammys were all about the music, I fled at the slightest indication that something of that nature was on the way. Thank goodness, because rumor has it that Hilary appeared and that would have definitely harshed the mellow I’d achieved during the all-too brief appearance of my beloved "It Wasn't Me" Shaggy. I also tried to minimize (more recipe searches on my phone) the giddy blathering ("Oh, there are celebrities around me!!!") of the self-besotted James Corden who, like Hilary, just won’t go away. 

Afloat  in the harbor....

To my horror/gratitude, my DVR went only until eleven and I awoke to find I’d slept through the final awards. I hear Bono made it back from the floating stage in the river but, reportedly, the “Edge” panicked after his cap was blown off, diving into the frigid water after it. Luckily, Lady Gaga, floating by on her piano, was able to rescue him though the cap was never recovered.

That’s it, friends. I know I’m nasty but tough times require a hard heart…or something like that. I now have several good crock pot recipes lined up and look forward to trying them. I’d be happy to share them if you’re interested!