Who needs Gatorade or menudo or IV drip therapy when you’ve got a bitchy verbal slap from Dustin Lance Black to temporarily cure your hangover. When I pulled my post-Oscar hungover carcass out of bed this morning, I was fully ready to get my mashed-up brains sort of working again by freebasing, butt chugging and guzzling coffee at the same time. But I didn’t need to do that, because Dustin Lance Black telling Sam Smith to step off his man on Twitter, pulled me out of my hangover haze for a minute.
Oh, don’t mind Russell Wilson; he’s just been trying so hard not to stare into Ciara’s front no no hole that he’s fallen into some kind of catatonic state. I’m sure he’s fine.
If there’s one night of the year when a famous type can throw out everything they know about class, taste, style, common sense, and Spanx, it’s the Grammys. I’m pretty sure if you look on your invitation, the dress code is simply a picture of Toni Braxton from the 43rd Grammy Awards. Unfortunately, only a handful of people observed the dress code and came barely-draped in their tacky finest. The most elegant of which was Ciara, who showed up in a table runner held together with a bunch of ribbons and damn near flashed everyone her panty goodies.
I’m not sure why Ciara and Russell Wilson were at the Grammys, since she hasn’t been nominated for one in six years and he doesn’t sing, but I’m really glad they did. Otherwise, we might have missed out on Ciara’s gorgeously trampy formal nightgown thing. Ciara looks like a slutty Miami dancer (I’ll let you decide what kind of dancer) named Porquoi? who works for diamonds and really really wants to fuck Scarface, and I’m into it.
With that being said, if this is how Ciara dresses now, I can’t wait to see what kind of high-end classiness $15 million lawsuit winner Ciara shows up in next year.
Of course, there were a few close seconds in terms of pure class and elegance, like Joy Villa and the always stunning Z LaLa (who came dressed like an IKEA As-Is section version of Cher). On the other end of the spectrum was Dancia, who said “Fuck it” to sexy and covered herself in whatever she could grab from Nicki Minaj’s storage locker from 2010 and glue to her pink onesie.
Saint Laurent’s show at The Hollywood Palladium in L.A. was last night and I guess the invitation read: Come dressed as a strung-out performer in Florida’s Meth Circus. I’m also guessing that Justin Bieber and Lady CaCa were the only ones who followed that dress code because DAMN. Gaga looks like a drunk, clingy auntie who is trying to relive her glory days by wearing one of her favorite outfits from the 80s and Justin Bieber looks like her messy teen nephew who is impatiently waiting for her to pass out into a drunken coma so he can go into her purse and steal enough money to buy a baggy of the bad shit.
If you’ve ever wondered what it would look like if Nancy Spungen played Susan in Desperately Seeking Susan, wonder no more. If you’ve ever asked yourself, “Hmmm, I wonder what it would look like if Harpo Marx played Riff Raff, Columbia AND Magenta in a community theater production of Rocky Horror Picture Show?“, you don’t have to ask yourself that question anymore. Lady Gaga answered both of those questions at the Saint Laurent show last night when she showed up in a sequined blazer that screamed, “affordable Michael Jackson impersonator,” makeup that screamed, “cracked out Casper the Friendly Ghost,” and a wig that looked like a pile of uncooked curly fries.
Gaga, Justin Bieber and his struggle stache managed to achieve the impossible, though. They managed to be the messiest messes at an event that Courtney Love was at. Because when Courtney Love showed up looking clean and hot, I doubt the door person said to her, “Um, no loitering! No loitering,” like they did with the Biebs and Gaga.
So Gaga and Justin Bieber should give themselves a slow clap for that.
And here’s a million more pictures from last night’s show including some of the hotness personified that is the Kravitz family and American-Canadian fresh drew drop Pamela Anderson with her son Brandon Lee who used an entire jar of hair grease to give you “Young Elvis.”
Even though my brain was still cursing my ass out for making it watch soggy Ritz cracker Donald Trump struggle to read off cue cards last week, I watched Saturday Night Live last night. Mostly because I was hoping they’d open with a sketch showing that last week’s show was just an elaborate 90-minute long prank pulled by Gilly. Instead, they kept it classy by scrapping their usual cold open and replacing it with Cecily Strong acknowledging Friday’s events in Paris. It’s short and sweet and she even does the second half in French, which is pretty impressive (well, to me, at least – but that’s because I can barely order a cheeseburger in French without going “Um…uh…le…um…“). She must have gotten a few pronunciation lessons from Jean K. Jean or something.
They still did a whole show, of course, and I’ve thrown two of the funnier sketches after the cut.
By the way, I’m typing this on a Braille keyboard, because I’ve had THAT PICTURE of Prince Hot Ginge taped onto my face since Friday. “Did you do something to your hair? You look so much better!” is what I heard all weekend from my family and friends.
The London premiere of the 24th James Bond movie, Spectre, happened tonight and Prince Hot Ginge was there, because DUH, there was an open bar and I’m sure the place was filled with stringy dishwater blondes he could make out with behind the concession counter. PHG brought along those other two, Prince William and Duchess Kate, because they never ever get out of the house and needed a date night.
The easy listening Boy George that is Sam Smith said he wrote Writing’s On The Wall, the theme song for the new James Bond movie Spectre, in about 20 minutes. It was released today and it sounds like he wrote it in about 5 after spending 15 minutes sipping wine and snorting crushed-up Ambien. It’s so damn slow. It makes a Lana Del Rey song sound like a sped-up version of “Get Happy” as sung by Shirley Temple on coke. It also sounds like he sang it in a half-sedated state while getting his b-hole waxed. It’s so whiny and sleepy. It’s the musical equivalent of your piece whining at you to cuddle with them after sex times and you just want to go to sleep.
A clip of it is below. If you have Spotify, you can listen to the whole thing here. I just kept waiting for it to swell and for Sam Smith to bring the DRAMA. It never happened. I waited and waited and waited. It felt like I was giving a handjob to a drunk dude who couldn’t get hard. You know, you keep jacking and waiting and jacking and waiting and eventually you pick up your phone with your other hand to play a game of Candy Crush.
If I can’t picture a drag queen in a sequined gown singing or lip-synching it in a gay club as dancers in tuxedos dance around her, it’s not a Bond song to me.