I didn’t watch the Grammys broadcast. CBS made the decision to treat 2012 media as if it were 1973 by delaying the West Coast feed for three hours (presumably so we could watch all of Glitter, which was on as well), leaving us to slurp up the sloppy seconds on Pacific Time. Fuck that stone-age nonsense.
Thanks to the wonderfully wacky and wildly excitable world of Twitter, however, I was able to live each shimmering moment as it unfolded in realtime, through the 140-character blasts of the legions watching and fluttering their fingers along in mass tandem kneejerk reaction. It seemed a better year than most for the gladhanding industry shitshow, as far as ingenuity and entertainment value, with a few wild curveballs that didn’t fare quite so well.
I watched your fucking tweets unfold for three hours, and after careful consideration I’ve deducted the following:
Adele beat some musical ass, and reclaimed her signature song. Yet the covers will never, ever end.
The Foo Fighters own the Rock world, and we’re feeling better than ever about our 2011 Album of The Year pick.
You also all want to fuck Dave Grohl.
Skrillex won’t answer his phone. Blame Deadmau5.
Bon Iver, the poorest but most colorful pill in the Ambien pack, appreciates the “sweet hookup” of Best New Artist. We thought he was a pretty solid “new” artist when we saw him playing festivals three years ago.
Katy Perry’s just stopping in on her way to Comic Con.
The Beach Boys are the grey, decayed meat in a douche sandwich.
Liking Radiohead is now not cool to celebrate.
Foster The People still suck the fattest asshole on the planet.
Everyone has forgotten about Lady Gaga. Time to get an English accent, start working out and adopt 12 kids.
Old Paul McCartney makes cute music, boringly. Is into analingus.
Also: Nobody under 25 seems to have any idea who he is.
Nicki Minaj rolled up with ten shades of what the goth Like a Prayer fuck.
Don Cornelius is covered in tribute snub.
Foo Fighters talk epic shit on people who make music on computers, then perform with people who make music on computers.
Then there’s the upper crust of the mental midgets on the Chris Brown scale, otherwise known as his legions of #TeamBreezy supporters who peppered the Twittersphere with such lovely insight as:
He won a Grammy. And performed. And got a standing ovation. And just in time for the blood pressure to cook my pineal gland, this photo started making the rounds:
If anyone needs me, I’ll be playing with the defibrillators in my neighbor’s EMT kit. Or finding Diplo’s little puff session with Rihanna and Grohl.