Truth be told, this wasn’t my first stab at squeaking out a website (The Umbrella, anyone…anyone?!) or blog post (try third), but 10 years ago on Grammy night, at the dawn of all things Bush, Yer Wook entered the blogosphere via “Wookified Musings”. Hosted on Blogspot, read by no one. A decade on, I sound as weathered as Eminem, but tonight he’s favored for Album of the Year and I’m still hunkered in the basement. Rehashing at that.
1. Madonna – Nice guns, but age shows our Material Girl getting a wee bit out of breath on those hip thrusts, no? Turn up background singers.
2. Jon Stewart – Like me with a stack of Stank Ho magazines, Jonny Boy’s mimicry of wood got stiffer as the night dragged on.
3. Destiny Child’s Grammy – What a lucky Grammy.
4. Paul Simon – How fortunate art thou Garfunkel?
5. Vince Gill – Shouldn’t you be like mourning Dale Earnhardt’s death or something?
6. Oscar De La Hoya – A nominee. Enuff said.
7. Shakira – My new favorite word, with emphasis on the “ra”.
8. Irony – Recipient of the award for Native American Music Album thanking his “lord and savior Jesus Christ.”
9. The Embrace – The full-throttle build-up to the post-performance bear hug between Eminem and Elton John; well worth the wait.
10. Steely Fucking Dan – Steely Fucking Dan?
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You know what that means? Them digits signify a mere two months before my Michelle Rodriguez thirst is quenched.
I’ve been damn thirsty, considering my Fast & Furious franchise embargo remains strictly enforced.
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The “Do Not Cross the Tracks” sign is easily the oldest attribute of the station, it’s weathered board and pre-bazillionpossibilitiesoffont font a reminder of man’s insatiable urge to cross the tracks.
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The Super Why? app is $1.99 well spent. Not only does it separate me from the iPhone for a few minutes (see honey, I can put it down), but it allows Papa Wook to take in last week’s episode of Mad Men with lighter lids. We’re all winners, but champions will be crowned once the following consumerist pursuits have been bagged.
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It goes by so fast. One moment, you’re deciding whether to settle on happies around the corner or crossing town for dinner, a decision hinging strictly on whether the dog’s bladder can hold out. The next, a satisfactory evening is met after watching the oldest perform sock puppet theater to the point of exhaustion. Although for the record, the socks went to bed on the feet.
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Because I felt it such a wasted opportunity for Ben Quayle to not backdrop his patriotism with the required dose of Brad Fiedel’s thunder.
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The trailer for The Expendables fills me with the same giddy expectation that teased my inner ’80s action hero a few years back when the Rambo reboot reared its mulletesque head – meaning I’ll relish the film best as a 3-minute short and never take the time to watch it in its entirety.
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Remembering the smell of her teen spirit. An anniversary built on power chords.
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