Old Man

It happened. I got old.

While watching the Grammys tonight, all I could think to say was, “Why is this so loud and why are all these women dressed like whores?”

I guess there has always been a flesh component to music. And I am happy for the flesh. But after tonight, I just feel like my name should be AgnesRose and I should be sitting on some porch somewhere where I hope young women will come up to me and ask for advice and I will tell them things like, “If you are going to sing, do that. Don’t dance so much.” And, “If your ass is a little cottage cheesy, by all means, cover it up. Even big plastic costume pieces can’t save you.” And lastly, “You know, I always thought you were special and talented, but have you noticed that the guys are just doing music? They don’t strip down to their coochy, why must you?”

Not a great lover of percussion, or bass, or colorful floor shows, I have missed out on enjoying much of the new music over the past thirty years. But I keep trying. I listen. I understand the big bold appeal for people who want to feel their bodies quaking a bit. But it does nothing for my ears.

So I put on my flannel robe and turn gray.

Three more things:

Barbra Streisand must have practiced too hard for the event. Poor thing, croaking it out.

It all looks like cabbage wars from where I’m sitting.

A lot of God out there in Grammy land. I bet you’d need it.