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February 12, 2007

I Don't Have to Blog That Red Light

Confession time: I totally forgot about the Grammys.

Just didn’t have a clue there were last night. I wasn’t planning on live-blogging it, as I have in years past, but I flat-out forgot it was last night. The only advertising I saw for it were a few of those, “Hi, I’m Justin Timberlake, I’m rich, famous, talented, and I will soon sleep with all of your women, including the one lucky enough to win a contest to sing with me onstage before I tag-team her with Jessica Biel or Scarlett Johansson or whomever it is this week, really, it’s whatever my whims dictate, I’m Justin Timberlake, and you’re not, bitches”, ads, and really, those alone turned me off to the whole endeavor.

I did want to see The Police reunite, although my lingering fear of why Sting transposed “Roxanne” with his new band down a few keys because he could no longer hit the high notes proved to be true, if this clip is any evidence.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sHXCs84iJc

Then again, at this point in his career, he’s earned the right to sing the damn song any which way he feels. That’s the right you earn for being the 60-year old version of Justin Timberlake. (I am sure there are “We Must Stop Justin and Sting” meetings popping up everywhere in Hollywood. Or maybe just in chat rooms. Somewhere Josh Harnett is leaving comments like, “I’ll bring sexy back, if by ‘sexy’ you mean ‘my fist’ and by ‘back’ you mean ‘into Justin’s stupid face’.”)

“Roxanne” would have been probably my fifteenth choice to hear last night. It’s just…obvious. And co-opted to the point where people forget the original meaning of the song and play it in really inappropriate places. Not as inappropriate as the newlyweds who pick “Every Breath You Take” as their first dance, but it’s homogenized, it’s pervasive, it’s everywhere. I’d be kicking myself if they’d unleashed “Synchronicity II” or “Bed’s Too Big Without You”, but for me, any rendition of “Roxanne” that doesn’t prominently feature Ewan McGregor and 50 pairs of tango dancers just isn’t “Roxanne” anymore.

Reading over the reviews of the performances, it sounds like I really didn’t miss much. Looks like Shakira broke out “Hips Don’t Lie” for the approximately 89 billionth time in the past year. Ditto James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful”, a surprising choice in that I was sure a contract killer had been hired by this point to take Mr. Blunt out of the picture.

I don’t want Jesus to take the wheel, because it’s my car, damnit, and I don’t care if he is my Lord and Savior, I just don’t like people driving my car. If I’m too drunk to drive, I’ll take a cab and come back tomorrow. No offense, Jesus. Or Carrie Underwood.

The Dixie Chicks..oh, I can’t be bothered.

In all honesty, we were watching “Saturday Night Live” on DVR, drinking wine, and forgot all about the damn thing. I am sure three of you are crushed. But it’s looking a lot like I didn’t miss anything, either, so I guess it was fortuitous that I had my brain lapse.

As for the VMA recap later this summer…I think I’ll be on my honeymoon, which can’t be as strange for you to read as for me to type. It’s not physically possible. (Recently The Girl emailed me, “Only 200 days to the wedding!” My instant and ill-advised retort? “Plenty of time to escape.” I would have said the same thing in person, provided I was on the other side of a wall of bullet-proof glass.) I’d live-blog from poolside, but again, I value my life, all evidence to the contrary.

Might be a running diary-free year. Wait, that’s not gonna happen. Plenty of award shows to mock. Maybe the Blockbuster Awards, or the People’s Choice Awards, or the NAACP Image Awards. The latter is always especially hysterical.

We’ll just see.

Posted by Ryan McGee at February 12, 2007 07:51 PM

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Posted by: Susan at February 13, 2007 02:51 PM

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