In which Bwog Arts correspondent Daniel D'Addario watches MTV so you don't have to. Promise him you won't.
This is the worst thing ever to happen to America. I am stuffing my face with Westside Market cheddar on crackers to smother my feelings; from next door, the smell of pot reminds me that hope is still possible. I'm moments into the Video Music Awards, precious time I could have spent writing a novel or teaching children to sing or crying softly into my pillow.
The show begins with a close-up shot of Britney Spears's weave - not artfully done, Brit - and my fantasies that she'd go bald for the show seem to have evaporated. Moments later, I'll be fantasizing that Britney Spears were standing upright, walking in a straight line, and not using "slowly shuffling like Linus Van Pelt" to simulate "dancing." I've given more compelling performances while singing "Like a Prayer" in the shower. She lies down; her backup dancers try to lift her up; they struggle. I stop eating the cheese. Britney lipsynchs (need it be said?) terribly the line, "I still want more." Indeed.
Reaction shots: 50 Cent, nonplussed. Rihanna, cracking up. Dan D'Addario, smiling wistfully at memories of "Umbrella," through unshed tears.
Sarah Silverman bombs brilliantly, with a series of jokes about Ms. Spears: "Isn't she amazing? Only 25, and she's already accomplish everything she'll ever accomplish."
Jennifer Garner looks enraged, which, chill, Sydney Bristow, no one said shit about Alias. Why are you here? Why is anyone here?
Alicia Keys comes on and rants for a few minutes, thanking Sarah Silverman for not making fun of her. All the lesbian jokes have been made, Alicia. Some other stuff happens; the memories are fuzzy. The reason why is, instead of defined set pieces or even beginnings or ends of performances, whatever drug-addled monkey is directing this show cuts into and out of acts going on in random hotel rooms at the Palms.
Awards-wise: Rihanna wins something, endears herself to America further. Beyonce takes her award either way too seriously or not seriously enough, with a near-nip slip on the way. Justin Timberlake, out of his mind on some substance, tells MTV to play more videos. Hopefully not "What Goes Around Comes Around." The Hills girls give Justin a second award, and remind me that not all television is bad weaves, cokey clenched jaws, and an audience who doesn't understand where they are. Sometimes it's The Hills - well-directed; energetic; coherent; Spencer Pratt aside, less painful than getting hit in the face by Britney's weave. I turn off MTV. The rest is still unwritten.
Sports correspondent David Iscoe updates us on Sunday Night Football:
Meanwhile Jason Witten has come through with a pretty good performance on Sunday Night Football. 5 catches for 78 yards including a touchdown.
Ok, the terrible, terrible Giants just recovered a fumble on the kickoff. Football sucks.
And it looks like they just stole the ball in the pile after the actual recovery. The NFL is illegitimate and nobody should watch it.
FOOTBALL IS GREAT!!!!
John Madden tries to explain how the Giants' kicker can get dehydrated despite only coming in a handful of times a game to kick a ball. "Sometimes they warm up so much and kick so many balls into the net that they just hyperventilate themselves."
Somewhere in America, someone is watching the movie Little Giants. That person is the only person in the country watching the Giants beat the Cowboys, arguably because Tom Coughlin didn't have the balls to call the Annexation of Puerto Rico.
The Hills airs Monday nights at 10. Never, ever watch anything else on MTV. Or sports.
