During my prepubescent years, before I realized the inherent atrocities of consuming prescribed mass media and celebrity garbage, The Grammys meant something to me. Mostly because my mom would make kettle corn. Damn, I love kettle corn.
I’ve always been somewhat of an audiophile. Setting up my first sound system at age four was a delight, but soon, the trite music tastes of the troglodyte children I was unfortunately forced into “play dates” grew old. I mean, Motörhead is, looking back, fairly bland compared to most stuff I was spinning pre-K, so when little Tyler Fogel (bless his ignorant soul) stopped breathing for a full three minutes when I duct-taped him to a chair and blasted “Ace of Spades” on repeat for the duration of our stupid “date,” I knew it was time to not only dump my lame *N SYNC-obsessed “friends,” but the music industry as a whole.
So did I watch The Grammys this year? Did the rest of the world decide to ignore Beyoncé’s performance and instead dedicate five minutes of their uniteresting lives to some sort of creative outlet? Of course not, because the gross consumerist ideals perpetuated by award shows such as The Grammys both detract from legitimate artists and make passive couch-viewing seem like a “cool,” and moverover, acceptable, cultural norm.
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhg. It pains me to see people follow such a counterintuitive, one-dimensial music industry. In an ideal America, everyone rejects this sad state of affairs and finds their own identity instead of having one methodically applied to them. But I digress... fuck The Grammys.
Pardon my French, but there’s really no way around being explicit. This is a big deal.
I know expecting people to think for themselves is a lot to ask. But at the same time, Tyler spent eight years in therapy after our little Motörhead incident. The last thing I need is another insecure hater.
One of these days everyone will be as cool as me, maybe.
