Always spending all that stupid time with your band on the road...

And another Grammy Awards has come and gone.  Second verse, same as the first.  All the people I love and hate with all the potential in the world to bring the drama and do the damn thing.  Alas, just like last year the media's take on the whole thing was more interesting than the actual show.  Sooo...

Highlights. Lowlights. WTFs.--2017 Grammy Edition

We were on the right track when the fairest queen in all the land John Travolta introduced my all time favorite lesbian gym teacher Keith Urban (Sidenote: she should've won every award 'Blue Ain't Your Color' was nominated for).  But then a big loud mess happened when Kristin Wiig came out dancing in a skit about white girls in bad 80s movies.  Only it turns out that was actually Carrie Underwood dancing on purpose.

 

The sound quality was once again in the shitter.  And AGAIN--this gig is seriously only about music and sound quality.  It even prompted this tweet from my one true love Anne Murray.  Nothing has ever made me happier...gawd!!

— Anne Murray (@annemurray1) February 13, 2017

Again with the  tributes done by random artists thrown together who had nothing to do with anything.  And again somehow Demi Lovato ends up being the saving grace/show stopper of the whole thing.  I wish I could've given this one to Andra  Day, but she clearly had no idea where she even was.
The exception to this was Morris Day (obviously) and Bruno Mars performing for Prince.  A lot of people questioned Mars for this, but I thought it was perfect.  They're both tiny, pretty, brown men, and it was clear Mars is a fan.  He was having fun.  And wearing eyeliner.

 

Katy Perry makes me ill.  How is anything she did a "political statement" in any way?  Because she stood on a stage with a Marley?  Because she horrible danced with 1990s Christina Applegate hair? I'd still do it to her.


And then A Tribe Called Quest came out and destroyed everyone.  Just fuck everyone ever.  P.S.  'We the People' was recorded like an hour ago--so stop pretending you were listening to this song 20 years ago.  It. Didn't. Happen.


I was excited to see the Best Spoken Word Album nominees. Though I thought that category had been axed a few years ago.  Elvis Costello, John Doe, Patti Smith--all amazing. (Amy Schumer can eat a dick though.) And I'm not even sad they all lost out to Carol Burnett--because it's Carol Burnett. 

 

And finally, some coulda woulda shouldas and unsolicited opinions:

 

Alicia Keys makes my genitals explode every. single. time.
Is Beyoncé the only woman who's ever been pregnant ever?  Just wondering...
I hate everything about Ed Sheeran's new record.
How and why is Twenty One Pilots still a thing?
If Lady Gaga ever had a poser moment...

 

Why didn't we get to see

• Solange win Best R&B Performance?
• William Bell win Best Americana Album?
• Sturgill Simpson win Best Country Album?
• Cage the Elephant win Best Rock Album?  BTW--been following them since everyone thought they'd be one hit wonders.

Best Alternative Album should've gone to Bon Iver.  Don't get me wrong--I love Bowie (may he forever rest in peace and on my bedroom wall) and wouldn't begrudge him a win, but he won for everything.  Even packaging--which by the way, who gives a fuck?  But if I did, I'd have gone with Parquet Courts.

 

Anderson.Paak should've won Best Urban Contemporary.

 

Are you fucking serious with

• Justin Bieber nominated for Album of the Year--really?  I can see a nomination for pop vocal, but even with his competition in that category--really?  I do get the pop solo performance though.
• a nomination for 'I Took a Pill in Ibiza'?  First of all I feel like that song is fours years old.  Secondly, Mike Posner.
• that gold book, Beyoncé???!!!

And finally, Chance the Rapper only wins awards because white people aren't afraid him.  And I won't even entertain an educated "agree to disagree" conversation about that.

 

The Weekly Walk With Me

I've managed to survive the first few weeks of my own personal new year.  With some interesting twists.  And ups.  And downs.  But aside from the possibility of World War III and the fear that the majority of the country has turned into the cast of Winter's Bone, I'm feeling OK about it.

4 Twists, 5 Ups, 2 Downs

1. My news embargo officially ended  on Feb. 9.  I did of course cheat a little.  There were some headlines and outfits that just could not be ignored.  BTW, this is old news, but I wouldn't have gone with a robin's egg shoe in January.  I get that pastels are in for winter this year, but I think an oxblood shoe and glove with that blue dress could've been everything.
When I did finally delve into the real stories, I  had a meltdown reminiscent of Karen Walker on the 'I Second That Emotion' episode of Will and Grace.  The lesson?  Keep the wall up, choose Us Weekly over The Washington Post.  Always.  Oh--and hit every dive Mexican and/or Cuban restaurant while you still can.

2. Learning my mother likes Bob Dylan.

3. And hearing her use the word butch.

4. And thinking I saw a Liberator in her closet until I realized it was something from a medical supply store.

5. But now my Mom knows what a Liberator is.

6. This article that made my heart happy:
Launch Pad

7. Ryan Adams tickets.

8. Mikki Blanco tickets.

9. Deerhunter tickets.

10. This Bed Stu bootie purchase:

11. I learned that corneal abrasion is a thing.  A painful thing actually.  I also learned what it's like to have an eyelid flipped inside out. And everything that irrigating an eye entails. I do not recommend. It's just something I can't quite get behind.

I was one of them pussy boys cuz I hated football...

I love Super Bowl Sunday.  Some of my best drinking stories, hook ups, recipes, athleisure outfits, and what the fucks come from that day.  But I'm the 'only in it for the commercials and chicken wings (and occasional half-time controversy)' asshole.   I know nothing about football.
The only sport my Dad cared about was boxing--so instead of Friday night lights, I grew up with Friday Night Fights on HBO.  Eating Mary Janes on the couch beside him.  I'd pull them and twist them.  Wrap them around my finger.  And every time he'd tell me not to play with my gum, reach for a Marlboro red and move his headphones off one ear so he could hear the TV and whatever was playing in his head at the same time.  
I vaguely remember my brother having a Pittsburgh Steelers belt in high school but I never saw him watch a game.  And I know he didn't play.  In fact the only ball I even remember being in the house was probably for the dog.  So I learned to celebrate America's great athletic past times with a cocktail and a perfectly useless pair of fashion sneakers.
It stands to reason that my championship picks are in such high demand.  You don't need stats or plays or even the players' names to know who's gonna win these things.  All you really need is good sound logic.
I'm told this year the New England Patriots are up against the Atlanta Falcons...


The word patriot of course brings to mind conservative politics.  Those described as "true patriots"  tend to be your John McCain, American Sniper types.  However, New England as a general rule skews liberal.  The so-called tree huggers and hippies, Ben & Jerry and all that.
And it would appear as though the patriots are winning right now.  They certainly did manage to turn democracy on its head.  But, isn't the American way founded on the freedoms to disagree and voice descent?  Are the liberal protests and rallies sprouting seemingly out of the ground not one of the most American priveleges we have?  So are the patriots-in the most basic sense of the word-really losing?  Or is the definition changing?  And maybe patriotism actually is winning?


Atlanta has been a hot-bed for quite some time now.  Atlanta is an alpha city.  The Atlanta ladies consistently rank as the favorites among the Real Housewives fanatics.  Atlanta gave us Goodie Mob and Killer Mike and Outkast.  And Bubba Sparxxx. (I dare you to argue with Miss New Booty!)  But Atlanta also gave us Young Thug and 2 Chainz, so...  You can also find The Flying Biscuit, which is the best hangover food ever--period.


New England has Murder She Wrote.


Atlanta hosted the Olympics.
No state in New England ever has.
But Atlanta's Olympics were bombed...


The only Patriots player I am aware of is Tom Brady.  Everyone loses their shit over him, but I just don't get the attraction.  His eyes are shifty--I think one of them is actually lazy.  (Would that pass a football physical?)  And he left his pregnant wife/girlfriend for Giselle. (OK, it is Giselle.)  But he wore a turtleneck in a mattress commercial, and that pretty much confirmed that I will never let him do it to me.
I don't know a single player on the Falcons.


Falcons have actually come back from extinction, and they are some of the fastest creatures on Earth.  But they are trainable and somewhat controllable--even though a crazy glove is required to handle them.  Patriots put themselves in harm's way for their cause.  But the American Sniper died at the hands of some fuck up at a Podunk shooting range--and as of 2015 his widow was still wearing French acrylics.


A falcon will grab a patriot's labrador puppy right out of his own back yard.  From! The! Sky!




I'm going with Falcons for the win.

#TBT

30 days to 40
last day of America's Dad in Mom jeans
current mood:

(picture your caption here)

I tidied up my point of view...

Yesterday was the first day of the rest of my life.  My New Year's Day was January 9, 2017.  I had yet to acknowledge the new year as I started coming down with a full body mucus suit at about 10:30 p.m. on NYE.    There I was with my Prosecco and expensive cheese counting down to the end of the purge of 2016 when I started getting that hard to swallow-hot behind the eyes-cotton packed in every orifice feeling. Fucking really?   And then I died.
But then yesterday--feeling better and motivated--was a snow day.  So that put me behind another day.  I'm actually kind of right on time if you think about it, because nobody starts the new year on the 1st.  They brunch and recover from New Year's Eve.
So today. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. And just like any other year I won't be making any solid resolutions. (Especially since my year is nine days shorter than everyone else's.)  But like some of my friends who go completely sober in January to get their livers together, I've decided to take on a short term project.  I am going completely news free for the first 30 days of (my) 2017.  I am a news junkie.  I absorb every plane crash and pussy grab and mass shooting and cardiac study.  It takes up a good three quarters of my work day. And sucks up about seven eighths of my serotonin.  It's time to take a step back. Play dumb.  Be the damsel in distress.  Woefully uninformed.  Talk about only eye shadow at my next social function.
It will come with some challenges.  Like--General Assembly session convenes tomorrow and like it or not, I have to participate.  And I will miss out on all but bits and pieces of the Presidential Inauguration, which boycott or free joints or whatever, I would've watched anyway because it's just the kind of pomp and circumstance I live for.  This also means I will be severely limiting my social media intake-at least the feeds and timelines, only seeing headlines at the bar and in the doughnut shop.
I'll come back to shore just in time for the Oscar's and the Grammy's-because, duh.  (Lucky for me I timed this just right for the Golden Globes.) 
I'm looking forward to the break--to be empty and vapid. I've already started.  This morning I sang Zayn's Pillowtalk all the way to work after waking from a sex dream about Milo Ventimiglia.  Actually, it could've been just a make out dream.  The details are fuzzy.  And I'm not really sure I'd let him do it to me...
I know some sad, heavy shit is coming in 2017.  But for the next 30 days I don't have two fucks to give about it, I'll be too dumb to care.

Maybe I'll Just Leave Town...

When I was a kid I used to think the notion of "home for the holidays" was so romantic.  That travelling home for the holidays would be like in the movies--Mom and Dad would cook for you and have the house decorated and it would feel special.  And you'd go have a beer at the local bar and run into an old high school flame or foe and make adult amends.  But my family was always close enough that the travel usually only took up an hour or so of the morning, and the indecision of whether to light the menorah or trim the tree made things unnecessarily complicated.  I was jealous of movie holidays.  Later, as an adult living states away from my family, holiday travel became hectic and obligatory-like traveling for work or racing to the hospital to watch Aunt Bev die. But with presents.  I should know better.  But after some unexpected turns this year I was hopeful for some holiday magic.  Some feeling of excitement or nostalgia that would propel me into the new year with a new outlook.  So my wife and I set out into the mountains, packed into a van with two cold, wet dogs--one embarrassingly overweight, the other slowly dying--to be 'home for the holidays' with her family.  My in-laws.  (...)  (...)
They live in the house my wife's stepfather grew up in.  It is full of charm and creaks and character.  But as you might imagine it was built back when people took up much less space. The bathroom was not designed for lazy bathing.  The kitchen not made to accommodate dust-gathering monster machinery.  Maneuvering becomes a game of Jenga.  Because my wife didn't grow up in this house I do not get the novelty of sleeping in her old bedroom covered in Morrissey posters.  But we do get to sleep in the attic where the grandkids play-surrounded by tea sets and stuffed animals and remote control cars.  This is where we will wake up at 4 a.m. to clanking dishes and a blaring television, two grown adults screaming at each other about Velveeta because one of them is legitimately deaf.  Their family dogs-originally trained for hunting-will bark when air moves and let themselves in and out of the house as they please, the door banging behind them every time.  (My favorite is Missy.  She only has three legs and looks like Jar Jar Binks and Marilyn Monroe had a baby. My kinda girl.)  And I'll climb down the steep staircase that hasn't had a working light in at least five years in anticipation of creamed tomatoes and gigantic buttermilk biscuits.  And for 20 minutes it'll all be worth it...
Only that breakfast wasn't meant to be this year.  After a visit to the doctor, my father-in-law has given up carbs.  We would also have no hot water as the hot water tank went out after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. So there I stood on Christmas morning, taking a whore bath from a boiling pot, trying to make myself presentable for extended family.  You may be wondering at this point if this small town family accepts me as an in-law.  Yes, they do.  I'm showered with gifts.  My father-in-law thinks I'm the prettiest one.  The youngest grandchild understands that he has two aunts who live together.  HOWEVER.  Not one of them knows I'm a Jew.  Dyke?  OK.  Kyke?  No. 
And so I stay closeted--eating the microwaved corn on the cob that is offered to me for Christmas dinner. 
(Sidenote:  To be fair I am not knocking my mother-in-law's cooking here.  Everyone knows that my own mother cooks meat no less than three times before it actually makes it to the table--microwaved for defrosting--boiled to kill anything that may have landed on or near it--and finally oven for the actual "cooking" part.)
And then on Christmas night two heartbreaks--the news of George Michael's passing, and having to explain to the older and more tipsy members of the family the difference between George Michael and Boy George, and learning that I would not be getting the homemade yeast rolls I love so much.  What would we find in their place?  That loose hussy Sister Schubert had somehow made her way to another of my holiday functions!!!!
All was finally calm when we settled in for movie night.  It was there I discovered that like 112% of the female population, I would probably do anything The Rock asked me to.  Though he probably wouldn't ask me for much without access to hot water.
I am most thankful this year that my holiday travels are over.  That I am back to my routine. Taking hot showers in a house where the pets don't know how to open doors.  Where there are no ancient black death stairs to die on. Where I can be half Jewish all the time. Where I can watch the news in peace (sort of).  Though I notice Lester Holt is on holiday vacation.  I wonder if even he is somewhere stomping around in his old bedroom, exasperated by his mother, trying to explain to his family what he does for a living...

They put in all that CGI and I just wanted to die...

Apparently I am becoming quite the Star Wars expert for someone who started studying so late in the game.  For instance, I know that 93% of the men I will be sharing a theatre with at any showing will have split ends for days.  And of that 93%,  85% will be goateed.  And of that 85%,  37% will have fat girlfriends (probably with quirky socks).  The remaining 48% will still be clinging to the commemorative popcorn tins.
I'm also learning that things would be a lot easier if they could've just released these movies in the proper fucking order.  So without further ado--the latest edition of WGW's Star Wars Cliffsnotes...

Rogue One

This one basically follows the same formula as the others--strong willed woman eventually develops a soft spot for some asshole she hates. Tavern scene.  Cheeky robot has all the good comebacks. Only all the creatures look a lot more like venereal disease in this one.
Forest Whitaker clomps and wheezes all around like somebody's halfway house Gramps.
Blind Bruce Lee tries to save Aleppo.
The kid from 'The Night Of' flies everyone in to Vietnam.
Darth Vader is mean.
Pocket protectors are in full effect on all the important uniforms. Is this the case in all of them?  I've never noticed them before.  I guess it takes one under Jimmy Smits' chin for me to pay attention.  Anyway, if I see this look start creeping up on fall runways-I'm out.
And no spoilers--but if you've seen the first one from back when Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were boffing (which is now technically the fifth one...again, nerd is a serious requirement here) then you pretty much know how it ends.


There. I just saved you two and half hours you could be using on holiday festivities.  It's a public service, really.