The Hump Day Rant is early this week!  Yuki is coming out later today and Ben will posting a ditty on that tomorrow, while Sgt. Angle takes Thursday this week for Cinegasm, leaving you bitches with me today.

Lucky you.

Against the better judgment of every man in the world, I recently braved the talent-farce that is the Grammy Awards.  My goal in doing so was to try and get a grasp on what I keep hearing the neon-donning teens of San Diego mention and/or hum before I kick them.  Times change.  What I listened to was the bane of my parents and 95% of the tripe I hear on the radio these days makes me want to drop-kick a baby further than Kaeding before the playoffs.  I had hoped to find something beautiful at the Grammy’s — I didn’t.  What follows is a pop-detached review of the over-produced shenanigans known as The Grammy Awards.

Lady Gaga opened the show in some sort of golden fag-factory wearing a green butterfly-shaped, glitter ranger outfit.  She also had some purple triangles on her face that, unfortunately, did not cover her whole face.  Also revealed in the opening performance was the outer area of her vagina and ass.  I realize that you were a stripper Miss Gaga, but you can afford clothes now — please wear some for those of us who do not want to see your haggard and used flesh.  Elton John joined her on stage.  I assume he came to retrieve the outfits Gaga stole from his 70s self.

At this point I realized that I had made a mistake.

Song of the Year: Beyonce Knowles, Single Ladies (Put a Ring on it). Wow.  That’s the best we got, huh?

Green Day played next, with the cast of their Broadway show American Idiot.  This was actually kind of cool — a bunch of theater losers getting to sing something that doesn’t involve idiotic dancing — I’m in.  It’s kind of hard to go wrong with Green Day…  I can’t help but wonder though: how long does it take Billy Joe to make his hair look like he didn’t make it?  Was the whole thing a bit melodramatically emo?  Yes.  But at least the source material wasn’t written for just teens.

Best Country Album: Who gives a shit?  Okay, fine.  Taylor Swift, Fearless, a girl who managed make Kristen Bell look big.  Eat a fucking cheeseburger.

Beyonce was next.  Another artist I know of?  Wow.  Maybe I’m not as old as I thought…  She rolled in with a homo-dancing-SWAT team, before jumping into a piano-laced grumble.  I’ll admit that this is one of the most talented vocalists in the world today, but I must quickly follow that with my biggest critique: the content of her songs (at least the two I’ve heard) are often lackadaisical and mundane, but she remedied her lack of substance by covering Alanis Morissette and maybe more, but I couldn’t tell.  Well done Ms. Knowles, way to play on your strengths.  All flash, no substance.

The next act was Pink.  She did the whole lonely hallway, virgin-Mary thing to open the performance.  Has anybody bothered to tell her that she isn’t cute?  I can’t tell if she’s trying to be sexy or tough, and I often wonder if she was born a hermaphrodite…  Probably not.  But those shoulders…  Anyways, for her whole performance she just walked around “singing.”  This would be fine if she had a voice like Beyonce, but she doesn’t.  I stopped watching, but then she took off her clothes and I couldn’t help but stare at the spinning-eunuch circus on my television.  I think she was dipped in water at some point, but she may have just been pissing on the audience.  Pink, the gimmicky, human-sprinkler.

Best New Artist: The Zac Brown Band.  I don’t know who these guys are, but one of them had a cut out of (I think) Zach Galifianakis on a Popsicle stick, so I like them.

The Black Eyed Peas.  Fuck the Black Eyed Peas.  These guys used to be good, a very long time ago.  Fergie killed them.  For their performance they came out in Michael Jackson’s S&M outfits and rolled around the stage muttering “Imma Be” and (like all their recent songs) just kept going on and on, repeating the same line.  When they got done saying “Imma be” they started blabbering about havin’ “a feelin.”  There were dancing speakers and wacky hairstyles abounding.  Unfortunately the performance did not end with a group suicide.  The popularity of this group actually makes me hate America.

Lady Antebellum played next.  I don’t know who these people are or where they came from, but I want them to go back there.  It’s not just that they’re country, but that they suck.  I’m pretty sure the guy on the right used to be a part of the Backstreet Boys.  And there isn’t enough black in the world to slim down that girl…

Best Comedy Album: Stephen Colbert, The Greatest Gift of All.  There is a God.

Record of the Year: Kings of Leon, Use Somebody.  I didn’t think these guys had a chance and while I like their previous album more, this was a great win, especially given their underwhelming competition.

Jamie Foxx sang opera.  Then something else.  It was all auto tune and made me queasy.  Mr. Foxx, what the fuck are you doing?  T-Pain showed up.  That didn’t help anything because T-Pain isn’t good unless he’s on a boat.  I’m pretty sure Keith Sweat rolled in at some point as well.  Then a fat girl.  Then Slash.  Seeing all that talent be so terrible reminded me of Kingdom of Heaven.  Mr. Foxx, I’d rather see you make a sequel to Miami Vice or Ray than listen to your “music” ever again.

Best Rock Album:  Green Day, 21st Century Breakdown.  Good job, boys.

The Zac Brown Band played next with Leon Russel, and while I didn’t know who these guys were before, I will be looking into them.  I liked their Amazing Grace open and the fact that they all look like beer-drinkers.  The music was fun and, though country, entertaining and positive.  Nobody did anything crazy or attempted in vain to make some rattled half-cocked statement — it was just good fun music with some talented good ol’ boys. I still think country sucks, but I can’t deny the talent.  Well done, sirs.

Taylor Swift performed next.  She had not eaten the previously suggested cheeseburger.  Her song was, well, meh.  It didn’t help my expectations that she was introduced by King Douchebag, Ryan Seacrest.  Stevie Nicks came on stage, which was cool, I guess.  But it seemed that Ms. Swift was having some problems singing live — perhaps she lacks talent without a post-production team.  And to the guy who played Cousin It in The Addams Family, nice guitar solo.

There was a This Is It thingie for Michael Jackson.  Apparently it was in 3D.  If you didn’t have 3D glasses it was in headache mode.  Children around the world had seizures when Michael reached out for them from beyond the grave.  Celine Dion, Usher, Carrie Underwood, Jennifer Hudson, and Smokey Robinson sang “The Earth Song.”  It was better when Michael did it by himself.  Michael Jackson was an incredibly talented man with innumerable issues.  I hope he finds more peace in the afterlife the he ever saw here on Earth.  And I hope the resurgence of spotlight-seeking celebrities and money-hungry suits stop using his death as a soapbox/cash cow soon.  Bringing out his kids, dressed as their dad, was a nice touch.

Bon Jovi showed up after Sheryl Crow kissed some Universal ass.  Unfortunately they didn’t perform “Blaze of Glory” from Young Guns 2, but they did throw out some of their other songs, one of which was picked by viewers online.  While Jon Bon has never been my cup of tea, I do respect their longevity.  Somebody named Jennifer Nettles came out and sang like she’d been drinking whiskey all afternoon and stood with her legs spread like she rode bulls as a child.  The last song they played was “Livin’ on a Prayer,” kind of appropriate for their career’s current state, don’t you think?

Best Rap/Sung Collaboration:  Jay-Z, Rihanna, Kanye West, Run This Town.

Andrea Bocelli, Mary J Blige and David Foster performed “Bridge Over Troubled Water” as a touching tribute to Haiti.  Give money.  Mary looked like Smurfette.

To the President and CEO of the Academy: Please go away.  You cannot stop music downloads.  I do not feel bad for the incredibly wealthy artists “losing” a bit of money.  Get off your soapbox and go home, to your mansion.

The Dave Matthews Band performed, which was cool.  I’ve always found them fun, but never enough to buy any of their albums. My favorite part was the refrigerator-sized man playing the trumpet.  You think Dave Matthews is ever not high?  I thought he might have been weed-less at the Grammy’s, but then he busted out what can only be described as leprechaun-flavored jig, and I knew that he was full of Mary Jane.

I thought Ricky Martin was dead.

Best Female Vocal Performance:  Beyonce, Halo.  I would like to thank Beyonce’s breasts for coming to the Grammy’s.

Maxwell was up next.  I think he was trying to seduce me…  It didn’t work.  All the fog, blue lighting and low camera angles in the world couldn’t make me like this guy — just not my scene.  Roberta Flack joined Maxwell and it still sucked.  Only now there was suck and ugly…  Roberta looked like somebody left her face out of the sunroof while driving down the freeway for a day, right after they shocked the shit out of her.

Jeff Beck gave homage to Les Paul.  Jeff Beck is the fucking man.  He played with Imelda May, some Irish chick I have no desire to get to know better.  She wasn’t bad, but her rockabilly style made me think of ugly.  Mr. Beck nailed it on the guitar and, with ease, plucked away at some Les Paul for our entertainment.

Quentin Tarantino — You are not Elvis.  You may be, however, the single greatest turd in the world (but a damn fine film maker).

Travis Barker, Eminem, Drake and Li’l Wayne were on stage to strut their stuff next.  It’s good to see that there is still confusion and misplaced anger alive in the music industry.  Drake used auto tune.  Damn him.  I think Eminem may be on Prozac or something, he’s so calm these days…

Pearl Jam was just on my television doing a Target ad.  What the fuck?

Best Album of the Year:  Taylor Swift, Fearless.

I suppose I should be happy that Transvestite Gaga didn’t win, but my faith in the music industry finds no solace in this decision alone.  If I have learned anything by watching the Grammy’s, it’s this:  winning a Grammy, or just being nominated, is not a sign of talent, skill or worth — but mass appeal.  Other things with mass appeal: McDonalds, cigarettes and promiscuous sex.

To the unnamed artists who spend countless hours working on their music and truly deserve recognition they will never receive I want to say, thanks.  I, and others like me, truly appreciate the fruits of your labor and respect you immense talent.

Grammy’s aint shit.

‘Til next time,

Mr. Wolff

Back to Semantink

Sgt. Angle reporting for duty! Short and sweet this week, as I’m on deadline for resting mine eyes.

I’ve just been pontificating what’s in store for all you heavy readers and viewers out there in the upcoming MYTHOI: BIRTH issue to be released soon, and words cannot describe what only pictures can. See for yourself.

Then again, words cannot describe all that music has to offer. Music has that uncanny ability to actually represent more than the lyrics tell you. Thanks to contrasting melodies, choral harmonies, and dizzying sound engineering, music can be known to make our hearts beat faster, or stop them all together. Which brings us to Michael Jackson (Effing Segues). THIS IS IT is the documentary revolving around MJ’s rehearsals for his final “curtain call” tour of London. As of today, “…It” has earned over $34 Million at the US BO. I haven’t offered money to the Jackson Family Fund seen the film yet, but I hope that you do, sirs and madams, and that you tell us about it. However, I do know that Jackson’s dance steps will live forever, just like Keanu Reeves is immortal, and was AKA King Charlemagne. Or a vampire.

Until you get the chance to watch the source of Neverland Ranch dressing King of Pop in his final dance moments, you can think long and hard about how to spend the next five years of your life building on the moves and creations of others.

For instance, you can join the recent Hollywood trend of remaking character-driven foreign films to fit the American filmmaking mold.

I don’t have a large axe to grind with remakes. The Departed was a fine film. So was 3:10 to Yuma. What I have a problem with is the idea that American audiences “on a wide scale” cannot already see “Let the Right One In” as it was intended to be seen, in the glorious Scandinavian snow quality. Why remake it at all? Why not plop down a huge chunk of change if you love the movie so much and blast it out into theaters across the country, tell the audience “you should see this,” instead of allowing the director of “Cloverfield” to lay his handheld fingers on it? Just screen the original. If you screen it, they will come.

I want that to be your mantra as you also think about the movie reboot of Battlestar Galactica. This is a property that has been a cult favorite ever since the original TV series in the 70s, and has already had a spectacular “reboot” which began in 2004, thanks to the creative, adaptive vision of Ronald D. Moore.

The Moore reboot added layers of philosophy and religion, of humanity in every one of the characters, and developed an entire universe that is similar yet unique from our own. What will Bryan Singer bring to the table, and why now? Could he be capitalizing on the recent success of Moore’s series and the title in question?

A type of reboot I can usually get behind is the movie-to-TV launch of a popular film, or at least, a film worthy of deeper exploration. Think of Friday Night Lights, and I’ll take you there. What Peter Berg was able to lift out of the book for the film, he made fly for the TV series. Now entering its’ fourth season, FNL is more than football, more than teenage drama. It’s about heart. It’s about hope. And it’s about a coach who still stands for integrity and decency despite his losses, because in life, it’s not about losing, it’s about how you deal with the loss. Have clear eyes (a clear vision for your future) full hearts (pumping blood through your veins and hope through your mind) and you can’t lose (you will always emerge victorious). This is a show that began as a true story, was written in a book by H.G. Bissinger and adapted into a film starring Billy Bob Thornton. The characters beat through the heart of America, and their weekly lives have become a dramatic mirror of clarity for millions of viewers.

I can think of reboots that work (Star Trek, Casino Royale, even) and remakes that are terrible and unnecessary (the wood block of Keanu Reeves gave only stiffness to The Day the Earth Stood Still, and is Leo DiCaprio seriously thinking of tackling The Third Man? Orson Welles shall roll over in his grave!). Can you? Perhaps venture into foreign lands and discover the French films of Jean-Pierre Jeunet before he jumped over to the Alien franchise (again, another reboot) to see how original movies from other lands can be. Broaden your horizon over the ocean once in a while, please.

But back to the subject at hand: This Is It. Michael Jackson. Did he have a heart worth beating for another 50 years, or did it just give up because he thought he’d lost everything? Dance your words into our comment section, and tell us: Is This It?

So Say We All.

Sgt. Angle