Monday, February 14, 2011

Valentine's Day and Why Awesome Music is Dead

Hurrah! It's a Two-Parter, so settle in and refill that grande mochachino, it's reading time my friends. Oh yeah, and I started this Monday, so, well, keep that in mind. End of prefacez.

Part I: The Obligatory Mention of Valentine's Day

I'd be singing some sort of love song (probably Three Days Grace, since I don't really listen to pop-y stuff) but my mouth is full of chocolates. Aren't the square ones legally supposed to ALWAYS be caramel-filled? Filling it with dark chocolate, while acceptable, still isn't caramel. Don't get me started on that weird pink goo though. THAT shit is gross.

So clearly The Man fulfilled his husbandly duties and got me some chocolate. He also wrote me a letter which was all "wish we could have gone out to dinner" and that's very The Man of him. Pretty much every card he gets me has a wish of something we should do, but can't. Which is HIGHlarious. Like the birthday card when he says "wish we could go to Vegas and I could buy you a 350Z" - that's how it usually goes. And honestly, I would love to do A. dinner B. Vegas (clearly) and C. my 350 Z. Someday, my friends, someday! The cards I write are usually much, um, longer. Shock!

The Children of the Corn also got valentine's stuff from us, as if they needed any more sugar in their diets. Thankfully, Casanova appears to have the hummingbird metabolism of my husband and Princess is too busy writing her dissertation on Junie B. Jones to worry about over-indulging in carbohydrates. They'd both live on fruit roll-ups (the horror! I've tried banning them.) Juicy Juice and Kix if they could. I'm pro Kix, so there's that.

See, this is what happens when you're all Married with Children. You throw candy at each other, shout "Happy Valentine's Day" as you're running out the door and meet up later for some shoddily prepared stir fry dinner. (It's not MY fault I hate cooking.)

For the rest of you who have time to put on Vicky's Secret underwear and dash off to some Italian place, enjoy it for the rest of us! And I hope that cheesecake goes right to your thighs. Ahem.

Part II: Why I Will Never Watch the Grammys Again and/or Why Music Died

Okay, we've reached the Sammo's Soapbox portion of today's blog. *And I apologize in advance for anyone I offend with my ranting and/or differing musical tastes!* (Even though I'm totally right.)(Because country sucks.)(But you probably think rock sucks.)(And you're wrong.)(But it's okay because we can all agree that Lady Gaga is the shit.)

Last night, since we didn't have anything good on DVR, The Man and I sat through (almost) the entire Grammys show. Now, since all you good readers, all four of you, know that I have a small shrine in my closet to the brilliance of Her Royalty of the Lady Gaga persuasion, it comes as no surprise that I was pleased as (spiked) punch to see her perform and win. And I also think her bizarre alien implants were hella more fun than that country chick's hideous Hefty bag dress.

Her new song is catchy, although I end up singing Madonna's "Express Yourself" half way through because in my brain it all mushes together. But Madonna didn't sing it after arriving in a giant extraterrestrial cocoon either.

Now. Here's my issue with the Grammys. It's an award for musicians, right? I mean, successful musicians who've sold lots of albums? Just so we're clear, I'm pretty sure that's what it is. And here is my problem. The music represented was as follows: 1. Crap that tweens and/or my 6-year old like. 2. Crap that people who wear large belt-buckles shaped like Texas like. 3. Crap that housewives are allegedly supposed to like. and of course, 4. Crap that teenage white kids who wear wife beaters and use urban slang like.

What *wasn't* featured? Crap that you can sing along with while face-punching someone who cut you off in traffic. Or imagining face-punching someone. Or, basically crap that *I* like. You know it bitches. ROCK.

And I am soooooo not talking about the "rock" that they tried to include in their *lame old ass* category. Oh, and I'm not talking about Tom Petty either, because I voted for him if ANYone had to win, because the evil announcers were saying horrible horrible things like "Pearl Jam" and then I couldn't hear because someone was screaming in agony and oh yeah it was me but then it was okay because Pearl Jam didn't win. I mean, we were mostly okay with "Jeremy" or even "Evenflow" although honestly all I could EVER think about was "don't they make baby products" and it was the 90s so what the hell did I care about songs about baby products? But honestly, I broke up with Eddy Vedder pretty much after that weird video with all the bloody kids and God help me but I have to suffer through "Can't Find a Better Man" at LEAST 700 times a week because my "rock" station is evil and refuses to accept that Shinedown has some sweet new singles.

But annnnyway. My main point is this: there are awards given for bands/artists that sell lots of albums. How many albums does Shinedown sell, or Disturbed, or Breaking Benjamin or, well, you get the idea. Remember those glory days when Metallica won some grammys? Me too. I mean, I think they won grammys. Maybe they were too badass and drunk and didn't want to accept them and sent some record exec to make speeches so they could binge on jack and coke on the tour bus. I really don't know. Either way, I'm FED UP with awesome rock being ignored so that I can listen to someone's sad ass singing being autotuned; fun at parties, makes you sound like a robot.

That's pretty much it. It's already Tuesday, I threw that damnable Girl with her bloody tattoo back at the library yesterday, and I'm knee deep in some killer Jeffery Deaver fiction. You know, fiction that actually makes you *want* to read it. I might give it a grammy.

Comments, questions, who would you give a grammy to?

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