The other night a friend texted me and said she looked forward to hearing my reaction to Justin Timberlake’s performance at the Grammys because, in her opinion, “the boy became a sexy man.” Rawr!
She probably just wanted me to text her back, but NO – I shall use this as an opportunity to vomit out some of my latest pop culture ramblings because I needed a blog post idea anyway, and my husband never wants to talk about this crap with me.
On Justin and the Grammys – I enjoyed the Rat Pack-ish throw back of JT’s number. Not many people could pull that off. I’ll even tolerate his longer hair for the sake of artistry, though I prefer his locks more closely shorn. Whatever – as long as he never revisits those N’Sync tight curls.
I DVR’d the Grammys and watched it later and overall I thought the performances were really good. Of course it could just be the fact that I haven’t seen a concert in eons. That Bruno Mars is a pint-size hottie.
Fresh Beat Band – Speaking of cutting-edge music, my kid loves this show. It knocked Caillou off the #1 spot, so I can’t complain. Hasta la vista, creepy bald boy.
Unfortunately our family now sings the closing Fresh Beat song, “Great Day,” at least once an hour. Von Trapps in the making over here. My main question about the show is that the band members are all supposed to be students, but they look like they’re pushing about 35. Especially Twist. Who is he kidding? Or is this at a community college? In which case why are children doing the background dancing? So confused.
New Girl – I am not a regular watcher of the Zooey Deschanel vehicle known as New Girl. Nor have I ever successfully referred to a TV show as a ‘vehicle’ – bucket list!
But I watched the last few episodes because I heard from some trustworthy folks that it was good. And I agree – it’s funnier than I was expecting. It also makes it look super fun to live with three guys. Parties, sexual tension, a funky loft. Who wouldn’t love that?
But then I remembered that I actually did live with three guys for a summer in college and there is one crucial element a TV show will never accurately depict – THE SMELL.
I still remember coming home on a 100+ degree day and finding all 3 of my roommates sitting on the couch in their underwear, sweating, backfiring* and scratching themselves. If memory serves they had also been eating microwaveable beef stew. I’m not joking when I say this is the one clear memory I have of the entire summer because the sight and smell burned my senses so bad. Searing. Awful.
30 Rock – I will always love you, Liz Lemon. Peace out.
Lisa Rinna – The other day I saw her doing a commercial for Depends in which she wore a diaper under an evening gown on a faux red carpet. A diaper. Under an evening gown. I mean, I realize you aren’t winning any Academy Awards, Lisa, but was this really a wise career move for you? (In her defense, I totally couldn’t see any diaper bulges.)
The Walking Dead – SO excited that this is back on, although I give Sunday’s return episode a B-. More killing. More zombies. More drama. More anything other than those stupid hallucinations of Lori – pleeze.
The Bachelor – I am slightly embarrassed to say I am watching this damn show again. Don’t get me wrong – I have openly watched my share of bad reality TV. But this one skirts the line in terms of having any redeemable qualities. Especially when the guy is dumb enough to keep around someone like Tierra. Thank jeebus she finally got the boot. I’m rooting for Catherine, but what is the point – they will never last anyway and I’ll be the one to suffer.
Kourtney and Kim (or Khloe?) take Miami – No, no, no, never.
Survivor – On the flip side, the Greatest Reality Show Ever Known to Man returns on Wednesday for a new season and I can report with great enthusiasm that yes, I will be tuning in to watch for the 26th consecutive season. My name is Amy, and I am an addict. For your own safety, do NOT attempt to stage an intervention. Just ask my husband.
*Full disclosure: This post originally said ‘farting,’ but I updated it out of respect for my husband as a Valentine’s Day gift. He grew up in a household where the word ‘fart’ was not allowed and instead they referred to flatulence as a ‘backfire.’ I love you, honey. Let the record show that I am nothing, if not romantic.