I thought I would write a story for my column at examiner.com about last night’s show. I began writing same while waiting for hubby during his doctor’s appointment. But then I started to get depressed. What’s the point? To give more publicity? To add to the snark that always surrounds these events? It’s really just feeding the beast to call more attention to people and events that scream “Look at me! Look at me!” What do they give us in return? A chance to make jokes and feel superior? A few more hits to generate a few more pennies in the online link game? (While I was pondering this, the Onion, in typical manner, posted another brilliant bit.) I need to find better ways to spend my time.
One of the (slightly positive?) things I did hope to do was share some of the fun of watching these televised train wrecks in the new Twitterverse with my fabulous, funny friends (some of whom I even know personally) and post some of my favorite tweets of the night. But I was stuck there, too, having neglected to screen grab or favorite all of them.
SO…I decided to scrap the column for examiner and post here, in my more personal forum for my more (close!) personal friends. Except for corrected spelling and finishing off some abrupt sentences, this is pretty much a first draft of my random notes and favorite tweets from the VMA’s… (Am I a hypocrite if I tag my references? Aargh…this strange new social media world messes up my head!)
The annual ritual of watching mostly incomprehensible performances, bemoaning misogyny and feeling old in that “What the…?! You kids get off my lawn” way.
One Direction made a splash for wearing very tight pants. Crap. I was watching the wrong channel and missed their red carpet arrival.
fought through wardrobe malfunctions (relax; it was just a wig) to relative yawns. She who lives by the need to create spectacle dies by the need to create spectacle. And hardly bothers to pretend she’s singing live.
If you needed any more reason to hate “Blurred Lines,” having Miley Cyrus performing it with was the tipping point. Of course, even mentioning her is giving her the attention she so desperately, depressingly craves, but if being the poster girl for skanky self-humiliation is what passes for fame these days, she’s welcome to it.
Flashing her tongue more often and more lasciviously than Gene Simmons, stripped down to flesh-colored underwear and using a giant foam finger in a manner better suited for a sex toy, she bumped and grinded (or twerked as the kids now like to say) with her furry fetish friends and a somewhat confused Thicke, dressed as Beetlejuice and probably wishing he was back with the naked models from the infamous video that helped launched his summer hit. Those naked babes were a veritable progressive women’s book club in comparison to the former Disney girl who set a new limbo bar-low for female performers. (Why is it usually the women performers who bring the bat-shit crazy? As always, I blame Madonna.)
Macklemore looked more like a junior sales exec from Walmart than the funky stylish “Thrift Shop” denizen of video fame, and teetered on the edge of self-importance while collecting the award for Best Video with a Social Message which is to be expected when you give an award with an inherently self-important title.
As elegant as she looked in her slinky evening gown, I Knew You Were Trouble.” The director naturally pointed the camera at Harry Styles, who was on the receiving end of last year’s VMA Swift kick during her performance of “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.” It’s about time for Ms. Swift’s exes to get together on a compilation album, perhaps entitled, “You’re No Walk in the Park Either, Sister.”is getting more bitchy brittle by the day, and gave a snarky shout out to whomever inspired “
@lesleyabravanel: #VMAs hasn’t jumped the shark, it’s fallen face first into a sharknado. Oy.
Justin Timberlake, god bless him, did an actual musical number with real singing and dancing, and yet, in concentrating on a medley of his many numerous hits, it was a reminder that his new “20/20 Experience” release doesn’t have the same quality/quantity of hook-driven songs. Jumping from one brief snippet to another, and moving through a variety of settings and dance moves, it was a veritable infomercial for his current stadium tour – all it needed was a scrawl with an 800 number for ordering tickets.
As for the much bally-hooed NSYNC reunion, there was a “blink-and-you’ll-miss-it” moment with the other four guys hidden in shadow and singing just enough of “” that you felt Justin was kissing them off for good. Despite JT’s acknowledgement of his former band in accepting his shiny new moon man, the so-short moment seemed more about proving how little he needs them now, more cruel than if he hadn’t invited them along at all.
As Rolling Stone editor and extremely clever music writer Rob Sheffield tweeted: @robsheff: wow he totally Destiny’s Childed them the fuck out of there #byebyebye
(Check out Rob’s full dissection of the night.)
Meanwhile, personal pal and foodie writer Mykl Wu summed up the expiration date of JT’s former flame thusly: @ChezWu: Somewhere, Britney’s crunching on doritos and chugging bud in a can. #VMAs
And finally, adding insult to injury, Not-Host (thank god) Kevin Hart made fun of the four former boy band stars’ weight gain and accused Joey Fatone of farting during the song – acting it out as well. Stay classy, Kevin.
And then hubby came out of the doctor’s office and I lost my will to write further.