Sunday night was a pop culture triple-threat, there were the Billboard Music Awards, the triumphant end of my favorite show, Mad Men, and even more depressing than Don Draper’s soul, E’s About Bruce. Fortunately, I don’t sleep, my children do, and there were no watering holes seductively calling my name. I’m such an over-achiever, I watched them all.
The Billboard Music Awards, hosted by America’s most exotic mess, Chrissy Teigen, included Van Halen, Taylor Swift’s takeover of the world, Kayne West’s indecipherable message and the positive results of Britney Spears’ electric shock therapy.
The world’s real queen, T.Swizzle, was perched on her thrown with her strong-jawed brother and her genetically blessed Scottish model-deejay-award-holder beau Calvin Harris. Is that sexual swagger I sense from Taylor’s new found strut? Who knew a white jumpsuit, shaggy bob and smoky eye could change so much?
I want rock bands to succeed, but Fall Out Boy may be done. Long after Jessica Simpson’s insignificant little sister and Pete Wentz’s ex-wife, Ashley Simpson, lip sang her way out of the charts, Wentz’s band is still on stage paying homage to Uma Thurman’s “Pulp Fiction” dance. Well, kids, shortly after Uma’s character Mia Wallace shimmied to Chuck Berry’s “C’est La Vie (You Never Can Tell)”, she began convulsing and frothing at the mouth in the midst of a heroin overdose, and that’s partially how I felt after watching FOB’s shaky performance.
Oh, if it isn’t John Legend and Megan Trainor, a match made in purgatory, a land of blandness, bad hair, boredom and a colossal waste of time. What was more humiliating for Legend: his wife’s hosting skills or this duet with Megan Trainor?
Jenny from the block’s love for an awards show is only trumped by her adoration for short and homely gigolos-turned back-up dancers-turned choreographers. J Lo, Casper’s facial hair can’t hide his obvious lack of everything. You poor bombshell, let me share some wisdom that my own mother shared with me at a young age, “let them miss you.” You don’t need to be at every awards show, scantily clad, delicately chomping on gum while your unattractive pool boy holds your hand. Please, let us miss you. I know that we will.
I’m so dated that every Nicky Minaj song sounds the same to me, like a filthy track from an “Alvin and the Chipmunks” movie. But, Nicky does prove that feminism has come a long way baby, now the female singers also grab and fondle their genitalia while gyrating. Nicky, you go with your vaginal itchy bad self.
Can we all cease taking about Kelly Clarkson’s weight gain and start talking about her awful inspirational power ballads? Someone get her mother-in-law, Reba McEntire to write her an actual song that is not about her triumph over life’s challenges. Girl, you won American Idol when American Idol actually meant something, can you get a new hook?
I believe that Kayne West closed the show with a heavily bleeped medley of “Black Skinhead” after being introduced by his two white, privileged and cosmetically enhanced model sister-in-laws. Yawn, I wonder if Kayne wrote this song before or after his professor mother died after having cheap liposuction surgery? Oh Kayne, you make it too easy.
It was not all bad, Britney Spears looked glorious and displayed a taste of her old dance moves, David Lee Roth cherished the limelight, Molly Ringwald showed how aging can be conducted and Swift’s Bad Blood video reminded me how much I love a music video.Nick Jonas played guitar and Mariah Carey was competent and beautiful.