I did not make it through the entire Grammys last night, because
A) I was bored out of my freakin’ MIND
B) Rock music should not be performed by human Necco Wafers.
I present, Exhibit Goop:
Coldplay is music for men who have vaginas. Yes, I said it. In case you were worried the “old” Tanya had left the building. How these toothless prats can win “Best Rock Album” over the stellar Raconteurs’ Consolers of the Lonely, which makes me want to drop a qualude and drive donuts in the high school parking lot while wearing a tube top and making out with two guys at once, I will never know.
I seriously hope prospective employers aren’t reading this.
But if they are, what the hell: Let me also say that I have no problem with the accolades slung all about Sir Bob Plant and quiet Allison Krauss, for yo, she has the voice of an angel and I mightily like that album Raising Sand. Also, I have this weird fantasy that even though they are not a romantic item, they mate and produce children with such lustrous hair that the world will weep in astonishment at its golden beauty. For alas, doesn’t Sir Bob’s hair verily shine for such an old man?
I mean seriously – that’s what MY hair looks like. Perhaps I am projecting?
In other news, I almost finsished something today, but didn’t. I am making a delicious zucchini pasta sauce. I am so domestic it must make you puke. I am borrowing the car tomorrow and applying IN PERSON at a place where I feel I have a good shot unless they have a hiring freeze I don’t know about.
Or they don’t like my lustrous Robert Plant-like mane.