Grammys

I have a lot of love saved up for Whitney Houston, whose entire first and second albums I used to love belting out in my room when I was, like, eight -- despite the fact that there's no way I should've been singing about spending all night shagging my married lover, and how it was emotionally hard when he was with his family but all worth it when he dropped by my place again for Naughty Time. I even had the piano music for that one; my parents must have been relieved I never whipped either of those performances out in public.

Naturally, then, her descent into becoming the scary-bony woman who told Diane Sawyer she made way too much money to bother doing crack and demanded to see receipts proving allegations she spent $500,000 on cocaine -- because drug dealers are renowned for making sure you have receipts for each purchase -- considerably saddened me. Thrillingly, though, Whitney looks like she's getting back on track.

Pretty! Classy! No bones poking out through her skin! And she's totally fixed up the hair!

My one beef: I am pretty sure those are panty-hose (which I totally wrote as "hos" by accident the first time and had to fix; perhaps this is my subconscious' way of telling me that, deep down, I believe nude panty-hose are the trashy cousins of a good pair of tights). And I hate that with open-toed shoes, especially ones with bling attached that draw your eye right down to the feet, making sure you notice the telltale webbing on her toes.

But other than that, well done, Whitney. One step at a time, right? We have time to deal with this whole panty-hose problem -- something that, not too long ago, I might not've been able to write without secretly worrying Bobby Brown would be the death of you before we got there. But now we've got you looking radiant again, so let's call this one a victory. Dare I suggest she's rekindled the greatest love of all? Oh, I dare, I DARE.

BEYONCE: Hi, Mommy! Thanks! Thanks for the dress!

SOLANGE: Yeah. That's good. Rub it in.

BEYONCE: Whatever do you mean?

SOLANGE: Oh, nothing. Just that, once again, Mom lets you wear some giant ball gown, and I get to wear a glorified freaking shirt with shoes that look like a five-year old made them. Awesome.

BEYONCE: You're so cranky.

SOLANGE: Wouldn't you be? It's like a funeral tent. Although I don't even like your dress that much. It looks a bit like wet sand at the beach got all over it. HA!

BEYONCE: That's real nice, there, Solange. Real mature. I think I look pretty.

SOLANGE: And your highlights look like refried Tina Turner from this angle.

BEYONCE: It was an homage! For our performance!

SOLANGE: Uh-huh. Right. Mom lets you do all that to yourself, and doesn't let me wear pants.

BEYONCE: Silly child. You have to EARN pants.

SOLANGE: Oh, is that so? Like you did on stage tonight?

Good for Gavin DeGraw for -- as he croons every week during the main titles of One Tree Hill -- not wanting to be anything other than what he's been trying to be lately.

Which, these days, is apparently the best-dressed goddamn paper boy in the Los Angeles Times circulation area. Who are you? NOBODY.

I saw Fantasia with this hair earlier in the week, but I have to admit that part of me thought I dreamed it:

I am...not sure why she thought that was a good idea. The longer I look at this picture, the more I realize that Fantasia has gorgeous eyes, so maybe this kooky look is an attempt to highlight one of her best features, the way ladies magazines are all, "Got a great nose? Draw attention to it by using SUPER BRIGHT BLUSH! Make sure you make CONCENTRIC CIRCLES using a standard-issue paint brush!"  And just as effective, really, in that I HAVE noticed her lovely eyes, but only as a way-station toward noticing that this isn't exactlyt the best hair she's ever had.

But let's take a look at the full-body 'do, shall we?

At first, we resisted the idea of fugging Imogen Heap. After all, looking insane is kind of her thing -- the Grammys weren't the first time, nor will they be the last. It's just sort of what she does. There are always big skirts and flowers and the fear that something might come wandering out of her head, only to discover the hard way that it no longer lives in an idyllic pasture. She's a British Bjork, but without that endearing Icelandic elfin quality that always makes Bjork seem a bit confused by all the regular-looking goings-on around her.

However, we've had a change of heart.

What caused us to relent? Well, it would be one thing if, like Bjork, Imogen Heap quietly and unassumingly owned her look and walked up the red carpet and did her interviews and that was that. But, in fact, we hear she paraded up and down and up and down that thing with relentless persistence for the entire two hours before the telecast began, just in case the staff photographer from Grandma Sally's Hicksville Gazette and Crop Report somehow missed her the first forty times she did a lap. That's not somebody who is inherently kooky and doesn't care what people think of it -- that's, "Oh, did you look at me? Are you sure? Maybe you should look at me again. Because, I mean, LOOK at me! Are you going to feature me on your show? Or on your site? Are you? Did you catch the stuffed frog I'm holding? What about the grass? It's real grass! And check the parasol! I look like a deranged and possibly drunk woodland Mary Poppins! Anyone want a spoonful of my sugar, baby? HAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm awesome! Look at me! ME!"

And that sealed the deal. Quirky for the sake of quirky isn't a natural personal style; it's just a big ol' calculated mess.

We would, however, recommend to the organizers that the next time the Queen of the Shrubberies is invited to any kind of ceremony, don't seat anyone behind her. It's sort of hard to see past her cranial topiaries, and on the offchance some creature does wander out from betwixt the reeds and become angry that it's been displaced from the forest, it's best not to run the risk that it'll take out that wrath on, like, James Blunt, or else we'll have to hear his new single "You're Rabieful" approximately 45 times an hour until the end of time.

As I think we've mentioned in this space before, I love Mandy Moore. I think she's extremely cute, and I love all her recent statements about how she's not going to turn into a toothpick (and I hope she's telling the truth - I think she is). But I loved her long before recent pro-eating statements. I loved her in the under-rated Saved! and as the bitchy mean girl in The Princess Diaries. I loved her in Chasing Liberty (in which she gets kind of naked!). I loved her in How to Deal, which is a terrible movie confabulation of two very good YA books by Sarah Dessen (Someone Like You and That Summer, respectively, which are awesome). I couldn't blame Mands for the bad adaptation. It's not her fault! Besides, I had residual love for her thanks to A Walk to Remember, in which she tragically dies. I might watch that every time it's on cable, and I might also cry at the end. But beyond all that, I love her for recording one of the best Pop Songs With A Spoken Interlude In the Middle ever: "Candy." Now, of course, the very BEST PSWASIITM is arguably "Oops, I Did It Again," but it's hard to not be charmed by the words, "You know who you are/Your love's as sweet as candy/I'll be forever yours/Love always, Mandy," especially during this run up to Valentine's Day.  So it always really pains me to tell Mandy that her look sort of didn't work. Although, judging from her face, it sort of looks like she already knows:

Mands looked totally uncomfortable throughout the Grammys, and while maybe her belt is just pinching her, I think she's suddenly become aware of the fact that her dress is made of fabric most recently seen covering throw pillows at a Days Inn.

You know what, John Legend?

I'm probably supposed to think it's charming to show up with the bow tie undone, hanging languidly against your popped-open shirt which reveals just enough of what looks like a freshly waxed and/or lubed-up chest; I'm sure you expect me to think it's all just effortlessly cool, suave, and macho. But here's the thing: I don't. I find it pretentious, John Legend.

That's right. I said it. You're trying very hard not to try, and it shows. Your paradox bores and annoys me. I feel like you're standing there quietly urging me to think you delicious and sex-on-legs because you couldn't be bothered to do up the tie, and yet, all I can think of is how smarmy you were in your red-carpet interview and how much thought I suspect you put into this, and how many man-hours you spent staring at yourself in the mirror cocking your finger guns at your own reflection before you decided that leaving your second-storey barn door halfway open (with the deadbolt undone to boot) was really tantalizing.

But, the thing is, I don't want to lay you down; I want to pin you against the wall long enough to do up your buttons and make a bow-tie out of those lazy flaps. And I further suspect I am not the only one who feels this way. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for deviating from the classic cool of a tuxedo, but not by simply failing to put it on completely. On purpose. Because you thought it looked really bitchin'. That feels way more like a greasy old nugget from Jeremy Piven's bag of tricks than the kind of stunt you would pull, John Legend. Reload and fire those finger guns again, sir. Be smooth, not stupid.

Carrie Underwood has a habit of showing up at award shows looking like a million bucks on the red carpet and then changing into something that makes her look more like five bucks. Behold:

Red Carpet:

"What a cute girl," you might say. "I love things that are sparkly. She looks sexy and age-appropriate!"

And then:

We should probably just be content with the fact that Jay Manuel is not as orange as a cheddar omelet, nor clad in enough pleather to render costuming The Matrix IV: Mo' Matrix, Mo' Problems nigh on impossible.

But you guys know by now that we're never truly content, right?

Wicked leopard moccasins, Jay, but no matter how hard you try, the post-party won't get moved to the heyday of Studio 54 -- the design for the flux capacitor got lost forever when Dr. Emmett Brown disappeared on that flying Wild West-era train with Mary Steenburgen in tow. [Oh, God, we wish we could erase that movie from our minds, but every so often it burps itself back up in our brains like chunky, rancid mind vomit.]

Maybe in these flared, leisure-suited times of distress, we can turn to Tyra Banks for a sweet dose of sanity -- don't know if you've heard, but apparently she's deemed herself the voice of a few generations of women, so I personally am dying to hear what it is that we're all trying to say. Take it away, Tyra.

"Hey guys!

What's up? I'm totally running late. My ice dancing recital ran WAY over because I couldn't find my left boot and all this other drama happened behind the scenes, like, you have no idea how crazy it is on the ice-dancing circuit, man, and I totally didn't have time to change out of my outfit so I'm here at the Grammys in a costume designed to convey the drama and glamour of  Swan Lake if it happened at Xanadu, because that's what our routine is -- my partner Fabrizo made the most awesome mash-up called Xanadu Lake and I play a duck that's also a Muse and I die at the end, it's totally touching, and we would have won if I actually knew how to skate, which I don't, as it turns out -- and, anyway, I really hope no one realizes that I was actually supposed to be here in a totally different outfit. Also, I might have gotten my bangs caught between the blades of Fabrizo's skates one of the times I fell down. Do you think they have any alcohol inside?"