Not Totally Sucking, with the 2008 Grammys

Normally I don’t give two hoots about the Grammys. I’m mildly amused when someone I like wins, indifferent when someone I don’t like gets accolades, and I’m willing to invest time into a few websites to see what everyone wore. However, this year was different. I own several of the CDs and songs that were up for nominations and I have a deep love for that 68-year-old vixen, Ms. Tina Turner (who did a splendid “Proud Mary” duet with Beyonce, who looked like she was struggling to keep up with Ms. Private Dancer). I decided that if she could still show up to knock them dead, then the least I could do was show up to watch.

There was all kinds of Amy Winehouse drama leading up to this year’s ceremony and it’s unavoidable to anyone who checks People.com 20 times a day (*cough* me). I am a fan of her nominated album, Back to Black, and have never seen her perform live so I was looking forward to a performance by her, via satellite or live, it didn’t matter. She gave a refreshingly lucid, earnest performance, giving many shout outs to her incarcerated Blake. The fact that she won all but one of the awards that she was nominated for will hopefully show her that, despite the crack and legal troubles, people do enjoy her music and would appreciate another album or two instead of her slowing killing herself (I was, however, not impressed with her back-up vocalists, but they didn’t distract too heavily from Ms. Winehouse’s performance).

Kanye West delivered another notable performance of “Stronger” with a touching tribute to his Mama with “Hey Mama” at the end. I will say that I was incredibly excited to see him perform, light-up glasses and all, but I felt a little sad because I kept expecting some awesome Daft Punk action to erupt from the space volcanoes that were on the stage, but all we got was the Tron-inspired duo inside the volcano messing with some touch screens. Fine, but not as rad as it could have been.

In addition to Kanye, the Foo Fighters rocked my effing socks off and managed to make me more excited for their upcoming March concert than I knew was possible. Their new album is awesome, deserving of the Grammy love they received, and I thank the Foos for delivering consistently awesome, ass-rocking albums every time.

There were a few oddball pairings that made me raise my proverbial eyebrow (since I can't actually do it):

Rihanna and Morris Day and the Time: …? I’m not quite sure that I enjoyed the Time remix of Umbrella, but it could have been worse I guess.

Worse: Keely Smith and Kid Rock. I’m not sure what was going on here, but if they needed to kill time, I’m sure they could have stretched out the My Grammy Moment segments a little longer.

Miley Cyrus and Cyndi Lauper: I’m forever thankful that they didn’t do a ‘best of both worlds’ “True Colors” duet, because I would have died in front of my TV (a la “The Ring”) but they both looked so awkward that I was thankful that they were just presenting an award.

In my opinion, this year the Grammys didn’t suck so hard. Way to go Grammys. And, with the writer’s strike at an end, maybe the Oscars will be the next one to not suck so hard. Keep your fingers crossed America!

Can't Wait 'Til You're Mine!

Prior to the Oscar buzz, Husband and I got a night out to see Juno in the theater. I didn’t want to have my hopes set too high that this movie was going to rock, but secretly, the Hope Chest in my soul was brimming with promise. All my eggs were in this movie basket, seeing as I can’t think of another movie until May (Sex and the City Movie please!) that I care to see (screw off Fool’s Gold, no one cares!).

Seeing Juno is like going out on a really great first date, where you like the guy so much you can’t remember the specifics of what he looks like, only how you felt when you were with him. This is what happened to me immediately after watching this movie; I couldn’t quote any of the funny lines (although the phrase “pork swords” will remain unforgettable) but I just knew that this was one of my new favorite movies. Juno, for me, was how boys must have felt watching Superbad. I enjoyed Superbad but it’s uncomfortably funny, not a movie that I would want to watch with my mom, but something I can kind of enjoy alone while I file my bill statements or fold towels. However, having been a turd of a girl for most of my high school existence, complete with shiny black plastic combat books and lunchbox purses, Juno made me feel 16 again, in the best possible way. While I managed to not get pregnant in high school, I did have a pretty foul mouth for someone my age and, even though I didn’t have my own Paulie Bleeker, my gay boyfriends managed to make me feel like the only girl in the world and for that, they’ll always have a special place in my heart (but not in my womb). Juno manages to feel brand new and yet totally comfortable all at the same time; I so wish that this were a real girl that I knew, but in my heart of hearts, I know she would only destroy me.

So, move over Sweeney Todd, No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood, because screw the Oscars! Juno receives my Can’t Wait to Own This on DVD Award for being the most re-watchable, touching, funny and magical movie I saw last year. Thank you Diablo Cody for making a movie that made me feel the same way that My So-Called Life made me feel, minus the wanting to “curl up in a corner and cry for three days” feeling that the latter provides. Juno is a must see, must own, hetero-girl crush in the making kind of movie. I’m fairly positive that it’s not going to win for best picture, but my Hope Chest is filling up again, just in case.

Dreams of an End...

As a result of the writer’s strike, my brain is forced to entertain itself. The other night, I dreamed an entire 30-minute episode of 30 Rock. It wasn’t as crazy as one of Tracy Jordan’s dreams, but it had its moments. Some highlights:
· Tracy and Josh were making out because Josh was trying to make his female characters “more authentic.”
· Floyd was visiting from Cleveland but, because Liz was anti-Christmas, he couldn’t take her back.
· Liz tried to prove that she was so into Christmas, she was practically the second coming of Christ (her words), so she decorated the writer’s room with a dozen NFL-themed Christmas trees, but Floyd isn’t convinced
· Jenna tries to eat her weight in candy corn because she misses the attention of being fat.
Ultimately, what this all means is that I am going through serious withdrawal from lack of original, scripted programming. I know that I’ve got some new Boston Legals to go through, but what happens when those run out?! I’m slightly thankful for new Prison Breaks, but am getting tired of how contrived it’s become (other viewers have come to this conclusion months ago, but I still had hope that they would give T-Bag more to do, I couldn’t have been more wrong). I don’t know how many ERs they have left in the can, but it’s all I have left of a once glorious NBC Thursday night lineup. The way John Stamos’ Tony Gates is working his way through doctors and nurses alike is way more exciting than anything that’s happening on “Celebrity” Apprentice.
So please: Studios, Writers, I don’t know how much more of this I can take! I beseech you to come to a decision before anyone else thinks it’s a good idea to give Donald Trump any more shows.
Yours in Desperation,
The Popmaiden

New American Gladiators?! Is it my birthday?!

I am not even halfway through the first episode of the All New American Gladiators and I am completely engrossed! If I were a snob I would blame it on the lack of original programming due to the writer's strike, but seeing as I once owned an original American Gladiator thermos, I know where my heart is. This type of pageantry, posturing and, lets face it, awesomeness, has not been seen on network television in many years (Donald Trump's stupid face doesn't count). The priceless Gladiator banter combined with the sensitivity of Hulk Hogan make for the best two hours of television I've witnessed in weeks. As far as the games go, the old favorites are back (Joust, Hang Tough, the Eliminator) and they've brought some new, kickass friends with them (the Earthquake, Hit and Run). And the names, sweet Jesus, it's like I'm seven again, sitting in my basement with a case of Mountain Dew and four boxes of Jawbreakers: Wolf, Siren, Toa, Crush, Venom, Titan, Fury, Justice, Mayhem, Hellga. No one will ever be another Storm or Nitro, but dammit, they sure come close. Also, their manipulation of the English language is magnificent. The example I choose is in the Eliminator; they could call a certain challenge a "treadmill" but they go for the more universal "travelator." What have I done without you Gladiators?! My vocabulary was dull and lifeless until you came back into my life. So, until the writer's strike is over, please consider this as a suitable replacement for original Monday night programming. Even after the strike, this will remain a solid part of my DVR until it's no longer fun (which I don't think will EVER happen) or until it gets cancelled, in which case I will light a candle and say a prayer for the everyday Joe's and Jane's that compete, and for those mammoths who look down with disdain from their Joust towers. Bless you, you muscular angels!


An aside: Here's a fun game: everything in your house is now a Gladiator name, you just have to use the right inflection. Examples: Crisco, Biscuits, Bounce, Velveeta, Snugglesoft, Jumparoo, Burprag, Blerg, Trashhole, DuvetCover, Junkmail, Playpen, XBox, Gamecube, Windex, Rawhide. OK, I could seriously go on forever, but I'll just continue on in my dreams. Happy watching!!

A Time for New Beginnings...

I am not a New Year's Eve person. I was in bed by 11 p.m. and it didn't even occur to me until the next day that I probably could have had a drink or two with no consequences, seeing as I didn't leave my home for fear of stray bullets. However, I did manage to remain undefeated at Scene It for the XBox, so the night was not without its spoils. While I glean nothing from a night of heavy vomiting, I do indulge in the occasional resolution, such as to maintain this blog since it was a very thoughtful gift from my dear husband. "But husband," I say, "the world doesn't need another social commentary blog about the trials and tribs of celebrity and pop culture in general." Husband assures me that the world does need this, so who am I to argue. I will spare you the litany of mundane resolutions that I will inevitably break in favor of making some that will be impossible to keep.

1) I don't want to know what Britney wore to court or how many times she's been to Starbucks this week. Even when she does manage to stay inside, serious journalists like Extra speculate as to what she's been up to and where she'll appear next. I am unable to remember such arbitrary things like birthdays and functions of my real job because items like this are crowding my brain. Because it's everywhere, I'm asking Mrs Spears-Alexander-Federline to cut the shit for awhile until my brain cells have a chance to grow back.
2) Stop watching serious journalists like Extra.
3) Stop caring whether or not Lindsey Lohan has fallen off the wagon or if she's really got the hang of this rehab thing.
4) Start reading something other than People Magazine and Entertainment Weekly.
5) Stop paying attention to celebrities unless they want me to buy their CDs or go see their movies.

Who am I kidding! I'll have better luck keeping my resolution of learning how to really play the guitar instead of Guitar Hero, despite this resolution being three years old now. That "More Than a Feeling" gets me every time!

A dish best served...at any temperature

Ah, revenge! The tears well up in my eyes just thinking about what could be done to the bastards that are encountered in everyday life. I wish I could boast that I have executed many a-fiendish plot against the multitude of enemies that I have acquired over the years. Sadly, I am more of a “plotter” than a “doer.” My problem is that I have entire Home Alone movie’s worth of revenge scenarios that I could play out at any time, but I lack the guts, motivation or means. I also think that I tend to lean more toward “vengeance” than revenge, as the people I would want to inflict harm or inconvenience on probably don’t realize that they’ve done something wrong to me. Like those silly bastards with the “W04” bumper stickers who think they’re so smart. Every time I see one of those, I would be willing to risk bodily harm to myself and my car just to run them into a guardrail, but can you imagine the paperwork afterward? I wouldn’t have the guts to admit that was the reason either, I would blame a stray cat or a plastic bag that floated across my windshield.
In recent memory, the one time I could have done something actually revengeful, I had waited too long and the opportunity passed. My deaf brother-in-law was living in the apartment above me when he came home one night to find his parking spot had already been taken by an unknown perp (I say perp because I’m pretty sure they were buying drugs from a neighbor). He had asked me to call a tow truck, but the tow company couldn’t do anything because there was no sign posted at the time. I knocked on a couple of doors, but no one owned up to it. Since I couldn’t do anything productive I thought, “What would be the most inconvenient thing I could do to these scumbags?” My answer came to as if from a dream: Screws in the tires. It’s so simple yet so ingenious! Now stick with me. I’m not one to condone petty vandalism to another person’s car. To key a car makes no statement, other than some jackass knows how to scratch things. My car was keyed once at the mall and I didn’t really care and never got it fixed. What was the point? It was just a couple of white marks in the passenger side, not like I had to see it everyday. And it was a Cavalier, not a Lexus, who would notice? However, nothing is more inconvenient than a flat tire. Add to that the fact that screws would be put into all four tires, so they don’t know when or where it would happen or if it would happen at the same time. Doubly inconvenient is the fact that you (normally) cannot just patch the hole like you could with a nail. A screw is so fucked up and barby that it usually ruins the tire, thusly forcing my victim to have to buy all new tires! Brilliant! I thought, this would be my time to shine, oh you are a sly girl indeed! But with all the maniacal hand rubbing, shifty eyes and rummaging of my tool box for loose screws, I missed my window of opportunity and the perps left without ever knowing the hell I could have put them through. So I implore you: Don’t hesitate! Whatever revenge situation that may come your way, grab it with everything you’ve got, act swiftly and run like hell! I may not be much of a revengist, but you can learn from my mistakes. My opportunity has passed, but you can make your own legacy.

Wage Slave

I take customer service extremely seriously. Working in used retail for several years has heightened my awareness to truly terrible customer service, but it also gives me compassion for those poor saps who just don’t deserve to be screamed at. I have often been one of those saps, taking it all with a smile, while some strung out junkie or overpaid yuppie vents their rage at being treated unfairly. The best part about working in the trading of used materials (books, music, magazines, hookah pipes) is that everything is subjective and you don’t really have to buy anything from these jackasses. I was always more than happy to negotiate with a rational person, but the minute it turns ugly, I have no remorse in turning everything down, even if the deal contains an item that I would covet myself.
There have been several occasions where I could have just flipped the table over and stormed out on my job, and most of the time it was always bug related. Living in the scorching southwest, it’s not unusual to come across your fair share of roaches and scorpions, but when they are neatly packed in between DVDs and “vintage” books (read: old & smelly), where is the line crossed? The worst such incident didn’t start out too bad. Someone had decided to trade in their prized Hercules and Xena box sets on VHS. These were lovingly placed into a large, clear, plastic tub and set up on the trade counter. I had no idea how much we would sell these for, it was my early days in the Music Department and I was all fresh-faced and eager, so I called another buyer over to school me in the ways of the boxed set. He proceeds to reach into the tub to inspect the product. He takes one tape out of it’s Lucy Lawless encased shrine, and what comes spilling out were roaches, potato bugs and spiders of Temple of Doom proportions. He drops the set back into the tub and slams the lid shut. This ruckus caused the other box sets to stir and very quickly the entire bottom of this tub is filled with bugs and I am gagging in horror. That could have been me! Not wanting to humiliate the customer (Lord knows having to carry out a bucket of bugs would be embarrassing enough) we calmly page the owner of these tapes to the front. What arrives at our counter can only loosely be described as female (the braless breasts unleashed under the homemade tank top confirmed this), covered in tattoos (a few swastikas for good measure), half of her head shaved, half dredlocked, with few to no teeth visible to the naked eye. My co-worker, God bless him, simply stated that we would not be able to take any of her items due to the condition of them (meanwhile, a tornado is forming in this tub, perhaps a West Side Story rumble between roaches and stink bugs, all visible to anyone with eyes). She snorted. She saw the bugs. She grabbed her tub and with a “Fuck you guys” walked out of the store with her flea circus in hand. I was fully pressed against the back wall, trying to shake the imaginary bugs out of my hair, when I got a glimpse at the tattoo that was on her calf: a Diet Coke can and a Pepsi can leaning against each other. Classy.
While insects are certainly traumatizing and most people would have thrown in their apron after something like that, I was far too curious as to what was going to be next. What was to be found in the giant box of porn brought in by a man we only knew as Bedsores, a scaley, Jabba the Hut of a man who would sit in our adult section for so long that a ring would form around him, like a moldy pumpkin that had leaked. Or, when something that can only be describes as a pink, crocheted penis cozy (with a place for one’s balls mind you) is unearthed from a box containing cook books and random knick knacks, do you take it in, do you touch it, do you pretend like it’s not there? If I remember correctly the deal was left unclaimed and, after closing, we chased each other around with the cozy stuck on the end of a pencil. You have to admire that kind of crafting.