1975 – 2020: Kathleen’s Battered Soul is Buried

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It’s been a wretched year, a year that made me ponder what gouging out my own eyes would feel like. Then I thought about the poor girl who really did that while high on meth and I’ve instead opted to scratch at my scalp psoriasis all day, every day. Scratch, scratch, pick, pick until little scabs form a constellation.

I should have known something was amiss on New Year’s Eve. I voluntarily stayed home on New Year’s Eve and with that unbelievable act, my existence was soon to be spit on. A lifelong pursuit of partying, irreverent conversations, and fancy frocks would explode right into my eybrowless face. 2020 started with my 8th nervous breakdown and just kept descending lower than The Chainsmokers’ talent level.

The Chainsmokers: 2020’s Soundtrack

To think that in January my biggest source of anxiety was that I was on my hundredth new job because job switching was my rebellious protest to the world — for no reason. My eff you to, well myself, I suppose. Gosh I long for the days when I had to create problems just to keep life interesting. Sigh.

The best part of 2020. Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B.

Oh 2020, you boyfriend with the awful breath, chiseled cheekbones, and tacky mom — you will NEVER get much better. You show glimpses of humanity, like a surprise Taylor Swift album, the fun and public mocking of Kelly Ripa, the creativity of Hulu’s Palm Springs, and watching all the Chads and Karens hemorrhage over Cardi B. and Megan Thee Stallion’s WAP video, but you will NEVER get much better.

I enjoyed everything about this movie.

But the pandemic was kind of fun for a bit, wasn’t it? It felt like dabbling with a hobby for a spell. I baked bread, gave away junk, went on HIKES, dyed my eyebrows and thought that this too shall pass. 

But I’ve now been home for too long. I don’t even know where anything is around here because I never put anything away. At home, I spend 1/4 of my time searching for what I just put down. The other 3/4 is spent in the following order:

  • Worrying.
  • Working.
  • Worrying about work.
  • Checking Facebook only to want to unfriend a slew of “friends”.
  • Scrolling through Twitter and having Twitter wars with Bishop Tobin, Dorinda Medley, and Sean Spicer.
  • Saying aloud, “I just can’t believe this is happening!”
  • Itching my scalp.
  • Staring out of my window.
  • Becoming way too excited for Housewives of NYC episodes.

Until next time, pals, Now go watch WAP and let me know what you think about it.

Can we laugh a little?

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Can we laugh yet? Come on, even a snicker? After months of clenched fists and jaws, nonstop “I just cants,” and praying that “Housewives of NYC” never ends, I’m prepared to giggle. So, go along and cackle with me or secretly lambaste me for my inappropriateness at such a painful time. Much like Megan Fox’s relationship with Machine Gun Kelly, I just don’t care anymore.

What does a harried mother do when she can’t partake in her most adored activities: sloppy bar hopping, concert going, and library frequenting? What does a woman do when she is left with all the duties she conducts poorly: house cleaning, meal preparation, and disciplining children? She throws on her stained athletic shorts and ponders…

Kayne & Kim: The Love Story

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All hail Britney as the queen of celebrity breakdowns, but Kayne is clutching that crown from her head with the same force he grabbed T. Swizzle’s Grammy. In a world of Lambos, he is the Tesla of coo-coos and I love it. In a sad and cutting bi-polar episode, Kayne is lashing out at the Kardashians. He’s holed up in his Wyoming ranch without his meds, but with his wit and vengeance.

A lot like his music, his Twitter take downs of the Kardashians are complicated with glimmers of brilliance. Kayne comparing his own life to “Get Out” is the funniest and most astute observation since some crazy lady told me months ago, “These kids are NEVER going back to school.” His reference to Kris Jenner as “Kris Jong-Un” is succinct. Keep it coming, Kayne.

I locked myself in my house over four months ago to fight the zombie apocalypse, armed with what feels like hundreds of streaming services, enough facial moisturizer for the entire Housewives’ franchise and a treadmill. I’ve dipped my toes into the swamp of post-pandemic social life and I didn’t like the muck. Most of my pandemic results have been bleak, but Taylor Swift just saved me.

“I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit.” Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift, America’s vision of talent, coolness and good taste — all wrapped in a cashmere cardigan — just saved my sad pandemic existence by releasing a fresh album of quiet loveliness and biting brilliance. Every sound intoxicates and stirs. Listing to it makes me smell my childhood and think of past loves, forgotten friends, and stolen kisses.

Just as my Fiona Apple haze was dissipating, the patron saint of pop music flew in with her fairy wings, Sylvia Plath- inspired look, and help from freaking Bon Iver to give me my new religion. Her new album “Folklore” is lusciously exquisite. It’s filled with mysterious stories about love, isolation and an ode to Rhode Island. If this is my soundtrack for the rest of the pandemic, I’m content.

Other Musings

  • It’s been 13 years, but I’m still confused by Reese and Ryan’s marriage.
  • There’s a fine line between so much to do/ I will do nothing at all.
  • I think I miss the movies the most.
  • It took the quarantine for me to fully love my dog.
  • The crumbling of Johnny Depp’s coolness is astounding.
  • Regarding Johnny Depp and Amber Heard’s bed poop: Think about the indelicate and logistical nature of defecating on a bed. How does one even go about it? Is this a thing?
  • I hope that poor John Travolta leaves the Scientology cult.
  • Consider this a plea to Hollywood agents to urge their celebrity clients to clean up their COVID attire! I demand that they put on a designer dud every few dog walks and fake grocery store runs. If I wanted to see Scarlett Johansson wearing sweats, I’d watch Marriage Story again. But I don’t really want to. Once was more than enough.
  • Taking walks is so boring and nature is filled with pests.
  • It’s curious that Megan Thee Stallion was shot by male rapper Tory Lanez and entertainment media isn’t talking about it. Megan Thee Stallion was on the cover of Rolling Stone, won countless BET and MTV awards and had the song of the year. Guess entertainment media was too focused on a reality star’s kid’s nose job?? Tssk.
  • If you don’t watch “The Housewives of NYC,” I am sorry that you are missing out on the best moments of your life.

The 2019 American Music Awards: A Blissed-Out Buzz

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The American Music Awards were a pop-culture blissed-out buzz. After three hours, I hobbled into bed with a surprising appreciation for Ozzy Osbourne, a reminder of my love for Kesha, and a concerned plea for Selena Gomez to extinguish the torch she’s carrying for Justin Bieber and get some vocal training.

Come on producers, why get greedy with the Auto-Tune now? Post Malone drank all the booze, he didn’t steal all the Auto-Tune.

Hey, who cares? Madonna can't sing either.
Hey, who cares? Madonna can’t sing either.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

Poor Selena looked lovely and sounded awful. Did Kevin Federline crawl out of obscurity to supply Selena with an extra dose of the concoction Britney was on while performing at the 2007 Video Music Awards (methadone, anti-psychotic meds and 3/4 of a bottle of chardonnay is my educated guess)? But while Britney’s legendary performance was so bad it was good, Selena’s was so bad it was sad.

Bieber and the Forgotten Baldwin

I dig the two songs Selena sang, just not the sounds that escaped her mouth. I like the idea of both songs and am fascinated that Justin Bieber can break someone’s heart so strongly. While he’s playing house in make-believe marriage land with the Baldwin family’s secondhand cousin, Hailey Baldwin-Bieber, Selena’s been nursing a broken heart with multiple rehab stints, a kidney transplant and a Lupus battle.

Come on Selena and get well. Everyone loves you, especially Jennifer Aniston and Taylor Swift and they’re all that really matter in Hollywood.

Kissing Cousins Without the Sexiness

Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes have the sexual chemistry of me and my first cousin. Actually that’s not even fair because my first cousin and I used stage our own wedding…so let’s just say that Shawn and Camila have the same kind of sexual friction of Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick. It’s an act and not a very believable one.

The couple’s never-ending award show performances of “Señorita” are a combination of “will they or won’t they kiss!?,” Camila trying to appear sexy and Shawn looking cute. I nominate each for the next round of cancel culture. Yes, cancel Camila and Shawn. Send her back to Fifth Harmony and him to Canada, I think the Bare Naked Ladies are looking for a new member.

Um, okay.

I’m so confused, did someone slip me Selena’s drink? Why is Toni Braxton performing on anything in 2019? I don’t care how she sounds, she’s Toni Braxton and she’s boring.

Taylor still feigning surprise she’s a winner.

Taylor Swift, America’s mean sweetheart, sashayed onto the stage with her talent, confidence, wit, and evil eye. She sang a medley of past hits and some off “Lover”, but she was really there to ruin Scooter Braun’s life just a little more than he already has.

Team Taylor all day, every day. And where does she get her lipstick?

And the performance of the night goes to…Ozzy?

I enjoyed the evening and was rarely bored. Billie Eilish and her ginger brother Finneas are the best sibling combination since Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen and Kesha’s rebirth is welcome and refreshing, but um, gulp, my favorite performance was Ozzy, Post Malone and Travis Scott. I don’t even know why, it just felt new and a little scary.

This Week in LaLa Land: ‘Stranger Things’ Warps, Beck Charms, the Tao of Winona + Taylor

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Today,  I want to dunk myself in silliness, then scrub off the Weinstein sewage of  sexual harassment stories from my enlarged pores. Let’s get back to the insipid stuff for a second, okay? Don’t worry, we can quickly return to wondering if civilized civilization is deader than Kevin Spacey’s career. But don’t worry about too much because we’ve always got our moral compass, Courtney Love, to lead us.

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Beck approves my Taylor fascination.

Taylor Swift’s “The old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now” is the new “It’s Britney, bitch.” It’s the battle cry for all the T. Swizzle lovers out there that just can’t take the critiques anymore. After going back and forth about the uncoolness of my affection for Tay and wondering if my make-believe friend Beck would unfriend me because of my Taylor obsession, I’m okay with it and in my mind, Beck loves Taylor, too.

I’ll eventually forgive Taylor for neglecting to invite me to her Rhode Island “Reputation” listening party. Perhaps she watched me prowl her property donning my homemade “Will Sell My Soul for Taylor” shirt or maybe she knows about my college side job of stalking.

Whatever the reason—I was clearly not on this list.  But really, it’s Taylor’s loss. She and I would have had such a girly time, I can see it now: I would’ve asked her if John Mayer is a true Lothario or a needy mother’s boy with abandonment issues, I’d then segue into a discussion over how her brother Austin feels to be so overshadowed by his big sister, then end with a probing question asking if she actually likes Lena Duhman. You know, small talk!

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Oh, Jim Hopper.

“Stranger Things” just might be the best thing that has happened to me since Johnny Depp celebrated his love for Winona Ryder in permanent ink with his soon-to-be Wino Forever tattoo. The show makes my heart skip a beat like the good old days of Mulder and Scully ridding the world of aliens with the help of sunflower seeds and religion.

What is it that I love about “Stranger Things?”

Let’s start with the revival of Winona Ryder’s career, one crazy eye at a time. I never did understand where Winona went. Big deal, she got a little pilled out and stole a few frocks from Saks. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? She also dated every influential 90s alternative rocker, befriended and became enemies with everyone’s favorite mean rich girl, Gwyneth Paltrow. She even dated Matt freaking Damon. The woman is the “It Girl” for strange girls and I never understood why her career fizzled after the shoplifting fiasco.

Either way, Wino’s back forever!

My fondness for “Stranger Things” does not end with Winona Ryder. I’m also in love with Chief Hopper, the gaggle of cool and geeky kids and the new feisty redhead, Max. And, may I ignite the Sean Astin  “Best Actor” Actor Emmy campaign right now?

Back to the Beck thing. If you still purchase music and are into Beck, I highly recommend that you check out “Colors”. The album is whip smart and gleeful. It just might make you dance and smile. Don’t worry, there’s still a healthy dose of Beck being Beck with his perfect combination of weirdness, poetry and his strong grasp on the current world vibe, but more than anything, it’s a crowd-pleasing rainbow of an album.

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Cheers to Twitter employee that suspended Trump’s account!

While I am handing out nominations, can someone also get the Nobel Peace Prize committee on the phone and help me nominate the Twitter employee that suspended Donald Trump’s Twitter account for 11 minutes? That person just saved the world for 660 seconds.

Till next time.

2017 VMAs: I missed Jon Snow’s bum for this?

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Katy Perry’s downward spiral into irrelevance continues.

I actually missed the season finale of Game of Thrones to watch Katy Perry play host at the 2017 VMAs  while further embarrassing herself in what has already been a pretty humiliating year for this past-her-prime star. But, hey, I’ve got priorities and Taylor Swift, Kendrick Lamar + Lorde are high up on that slim list, well above cleaning my car, properly shaving my legs or applying to graduate school.

I want to get to the good parts, like how alive Kendrick Lamar feels, that man is spitting fire + talent like Daenerys’ dragons breathe fury.  But, you know that’s not what I really care about because T. Swizzle is back with a pouting vengeance and I’m too pudgy and suburban momesque to really get the coolness of Kendrick Lamar. I want to, I really do, but I’m just not young enough to be worthy of it all.

 

And good ol’ MTV understands people like me because the channel wasted no time in getting to the “real” performance of the evening: a premiere of T. Swizzle’s ridiculously-catchy, good-girl-gone-bad tool of reinvention: “Look What You Made Me Do.”

 

Oh, Taytay, look what you just made me do: fall in love you all over again.

Who cares that I might miss Jon Snow and dragon lady get familial on GOT? In this candy cane of cinematic perfection, Taylor goes dead like a White Walker while metaphorically digging her own grave, only to later throw all the Hollywood trash into it.  This stuff, I get.

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This ring could be yours for $60 (+shipping + handling)

See, I want to be one of those people, the people that are too smart for Taylor’s obvious marketing ploys and scheming plans to devour the world without gaining a pound. I want to be horrified by her schilling $60 snake rings on her website, but really, I want to buy that damned ring and wear it without irony. I want that ring to go with my sarcasm and smirk, just like I bet it matches Taylor’s cynicism and exhaustion with her good girl image.

How can someone that didn’t even show up to the prom end up being the queen?

Well, that’s Taylor, baby. Love it or hate it.

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This is when my heart shattered.

Ugh, and while we are hating, I hate myself for admitting that Lorde was the train wreck that you just couldn’t watch, not for one second longer than was absolutely necessary. As grueling as it is to stomach some of GOT’s torture scenes, this was worse.

Lorde’s performance pained me more than Jared Leto’s continued denial of his own hotness. I want to believe that Lorde had the flu and couldn’t sing, but she should be on the phone firing her manager quicker than Katy Perry, and that is pretty freaking quickly.

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Jared Leto just killed Jordan Catalano

Oh Jared Leto, how could you do this to me? You were my Jordan Catalano, man. I am as confused over Jared’s constant need to desecrate his God-given beauty as I am by the fact that 30 Seconds to Mars is still making music! C’mon, MTV, was every member of Fall Out Boy, Blink 182 and Good Charlotte too busy to play?

 

 

 

 

Crashing the Party of the Year: Taylor Swift’s 4th of July Shindig

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I just crashed the party of the year, and it almost felt better than Taylor Swift’s arse looks.

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From left: Abigail Anderson (childhood friend), unknown taut backside, Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss, unknown, Swift’s photographer, Taylor Swift on Tom Hiddleston’s shoulder.

I’m as schooled in the art of celebrity stalking as I am with partying. Just ask every single one of my ex boyfriends: I am a psycho stalker.  And, what better opportunity do I have to shine than T. Swizzle’s legendary Rhode Island Fourth of July extravaganza? Mix lil’ Rhody with a dose of celebrity culture and add on some of that stalker stuff and I am happier than Tom Hiddleston’s agent!

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Taylor’s bikini reads “America,” but her passion is straight-up British.

I sacrificed my health for this stalker mission. I mean, have you seen me? I’m paler than Tom Hiddleston’s British inner thigh. I planted myself, my husband and children on a beach for eight hours to possibly spy Taylor Swift. I should have drunk a bottle of SPF 120 to make it through the day.

Just when I thought this skin damage was for naught, out descended the squad. Yes, Taylor Swift and her bevy of beautiful people opened the gates of her $17 million Watch Hill mansion and swam in the Atlantic Ocean right next to me and my chafed thighs. Their appearance was accomplished in a dizzying whirl of speed and exhilaration;  out they ran, in sync with their shared loveliness, tautness and fondness for Solo cups. (Stars, they really are JUST like us!)

The sexual spark between Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston was hotter than Gigi Hadid’s Prada shades. Soon after Taylor and Tom splashed into the water, she hopped onto his back with a mischievous look of love. They looked perfect together and I’m not even going to question why Tom Hiddleston wore a shirt into the water, let’s peg that to British modesty.

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Tay Tay leads Karlie Kloss and Blake Lively up to heaven.

And it was over as quickly as Taylor’s love for what’s-his-name, Calvin Harris. After a few photos, giggles and shared hugs, the squad ascended up the stairs and into the heaven that must be Taylor’s life. I saw Blake Lively’s burgeoning belly and Ruby Rose’s many tattoos.  Taylor’s brother Austin and I shared a glance and I wondered what his future holds, will being lost in Taylor’s shadow wreak havoc on this handsome man, or will he find his own fame? Austin, may I suggest that you marry Selena Gomez? Somebody has to get her away from any kind of microphone.

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Taylor Swift’s brother Austin. The picture is grainy, but the abs are amazing. Believe me.

As the crowd dissipated, I saw Selena. She didn’t participate in the oceanic frolic but she did watch from afar. She stood at the top of the stairs, holding a large hat, while looking pensive.  I could sense her Bieber love-sickness from below. Poor Selena, don’t pout, there’s always Austin Swift.

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Taylor, that’s my son, Holden.

Back at the ocean, we revelers were left with the type of feeling you get after paying for Taylor Swift tickets, “did that really just happen, did I really just do that?” Well, it did and I have the TMZ photo to prove it. In the madness of the moment, I almost forgot that I actually had children at the beach, but voila, here is evidence. That little boy staring straight ahead, the only person within a mile nonplussed by the hysteria is Holden, my son.

Stalk on, baby.

T. Swizzle struts her ego, Loudon Wainwright tickles the soul, Jason Isbell rocks my world. Can I sleep now?

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The rock-n-roll segment of my summer started with a safe blow to my insomnia-plagued head. In seven days, I saw Loudon Wainwright III,  Jason Isbell and Taylor Swift play in three different New England cities. I also checked out the Judd Apatow/Amy Schumer hub of hilarity “Trainwreck”. All were entertaining, but a certain pop princess was a bit of a letdown.

Keep to the singing, T. Swizzle.

Keep to the singing, T. Swizzle. (Photo by Evan Agostini/Invision/AP)

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Break a Sweat

It pains me to report, and I know that 59,998 of my fellow Gillette Stadium Swifties would disagree, but I give Taylor’s mediocre performance a rating of blasé. Girlfriend has the gift for gab, but doesn’t have anything substantial to say. Her pandering psychobabble of positivity and fan-loving was an insult to the audience’s intelligence and to her fan base’s age. For every seven-year-old sipping a Sprite, there was another 22-year-old sucking down a $14 margarita. Taylor, if you looked less at your mammoth-sized reflection in the jumbotron and more of your audience, you would notice. Your bangs are banging, get on with the show.

This is pop?

This is pop?

Swift sounded great, her voice improves with each album, but I was bored. In between songs and to assist with her many costume changes (wow, another really short pair of shorts and a sparkly top!), the crowd was subjected to a running loop of Taylor’s squad talking about….Taylor! Lena Dunham thinks that Taylor is such an asset to NYC, Victoria’s Secret models’ Kloss and Aldridge find the paparazzi so invasive, and they all concur…Taylor just adores cats. Gosh, give me Madonna feigning oral sex on a back-up dancer any day.

Art is supposed to move you, to make you think of something other than T. Swizzle’s prettiness and forced approachability. Could America’s national treasure actually be dull?

Loudon Wainwright & Jason Isbell Give Me Faith in Humanity

Familial love. How may redheads does it take to kidnap Loudon Wainwright III?

Familial love. How may redheads does it take to kidnap Loudon Wainwright III?

Loudon Wainwright III and Jason Isbell moved me; each made me ponder lost love, death and lust. At the Courthouse Center for the Arts, Loudon played a delightful set of classics and a new funny ode to the thought that as bad as life can be, it can always be worse, “It’s Not Gaza.” My brother, sister and I stormed Loudo’s back stage room to get another photo to add to our treasure trove. While there, Loudon summarized our existence with these choice words, “these Morrisons are real Loudheads.” Hell, we’ve been called worse.

I have nothing but love for Jason Isbell.

I have nothing but love for Jason Isbell.

Jason Isbell’s latest album “Something More Than Free” is currently the No. 1 country, rock and folk album. This former Drive By Trucker is the real deal. I missed his Newport Folk Festival performance because I was busy checking my watch at the T.Swizzle show, but check out NPR’s broadcast. His voice is lushly gritty and his tales of new-found sobriety, a failed marriage and a fresh love are gorgeous. He played for well over 2 1/2 hours at the New Haven’s College Street Music Hall. It was sonic bliss.

Cinematic gold.

Cinematic gold.

Almost as much as I love good music, I adore a girl behaving badly. Amy Schumer does just that in Trainwreck”. She unabashedly boozes, smokes, sleeps around and is turned off by commitment, children, sports and affection. She untimately finds her way, but her journey is terrific. Her love interest, played by Bill Hader, is an accurate portrayal of a geeky doctor looking for love and acceptance with a girl like Amy. A girl that I’d love to know.

Deep thoughts on the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show: Rock Stars Marry Angels, Hozier is Having an Identity Crisis

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What is a week without an awards show? I forced myself to sit through the recent VS Fashion Show and concert. No, not for the fashion, I’m more of a full-support, serious-looking kind of bra wearer, but I digress.

Kings of Leon were awesome a few albums ago. In their band infancy, I really bought their toxicity, appreciated their familial hotness and was impressed with their public displays of debauchery and public drunkenness. But their schtick got stale, they made that pop ballad and didn’t get any better. Did Caleb Followill’s marriage to VS Angel Lilly Albridge contribute to his cleaner image?

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Caleb, before he married an angel.

Lilly, his rock band is not cool anymore. You can do better. May I introduce you to Hozier?

Caleb, post-Angel matrimony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adam Levine is also married to a VS Angel and was, not surprisingly, previously engaged to a different VS Angel. This freakishly handsome man-child from a privileged Hollywood background will never go away, he is here to stay. Yes, his music is ordinary and mediocre, but who cares? He’s got charisma oozing from his well moisturized pores.

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

What will fade first? His tattoos or their love?

Right before I nodded off, I was thanked for my hard work with a doozie of delight: Ariana Grande almost got knocked on her noggin by one of those huge Angel wings.

Ariana Grande's constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Ariana Grande’s constant ponytail permanently disfigured her face.

Oh, Hozier, what were you doing there? Sometimes, it’s just not your venue and you’ve got to pass on exposure for artistic integrity. Watching this earnest Irish folk singer singing about God in front of lingerie-clad models was not even ironic in a cool way, it was just awkward. Even worse, his suit was awful and in need of a tailor. Hozier, please do not make me regret praising you and begging others to listen to your excellent CD.

Hozier, call a stylist; this cannot happen at the Grammy's.

Hozier, call a stylist;
this cannot happen at the Grammy’s.

Taylor Swift was amazing. I refuse to be negative about Taylor Swift because she has a home in Rhode Island and I have got serious geographical pride. And, Ed Sheeran is a redhead and I do not criticize redheads, I only adore them. I suffer from a little known disorder termed “Ginger Hysteria”. This condition forces me to think people have red hair when they, in fact, do not have a strand of red hair. I am being medicated for this condition.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.

Ed Sheeran is alright with me.