I tried to watch the second half of Grammys last week. I have a no excuse for this behavior other than the fact that I was preparing for a trip and knew I couldn’t really focus on anything more meaningful, like writing or listening to music or picking my ample honker. But because I was fortunate enough to be unable to focus, I have a few questions.
Who tunes the guitars for the guitar owners and why did that person have the night off?
Why was the piano covered with Rice Krispies? I mean, why?
Did Ringo need the other drummer and, if not, why did he keep looking over at him so beseechingly?
When Kris Kristofferson stopped “playing” the guitar during the corpse sing-along, was it because the key of “D” was just too challenging for him without a brain-capo?
About the robot guys: Could they possibly be aware that they are a perfect analogy for everything that’s hideously wrong with the sonic entertainment industry?
Why did Joan Rivers play the part of Madonna?
Who tunes the voices and why did that person have the week off?
Are we all married to Paul Williams now? Does that mean we can’t testify against him?
About that grotesquerie at the end of the carnival of ostentation: Did you, too, find that for the first time since the Academy Awards you were actually looking forward to a TV commercial?
And why couldn’t they perform this masturbatory act in private like the rest of us? Well … with the exception of that creepy guy I saw chastising his chunky in Central Park. But even he put it away when I yelled out, “Look! It’s just like a penis, only smaller.”