"He's Gone Grammy's!"
Dear Diary: Entry Three - Going Grammy's.
Dear Diary: Entry Three - Going Grammy's.
by Scott Herman - photography by Cole Herman
I'm not a big Hollywood award shows 'guy.' In fact, I believe it's merely a shameless opportunity for the richest of the rich to decide upon an agreeable date and time, gather together, and give each other a big ol' pat on the back. This sounds exactly like a typical pep rally I would have attended at Shelby Senior High School circa 1993 - 1996. We're first whipped into a frenzy for the football team, with an arbitrary 3-5 record, whom I liken to Kanye; ultra-cocky, a big mouth, and vastly overrated. Yep, I said it. Kanye's overrated. Meanwhile, the league-leading and state ranked boys cross country team is barely recognized before the gymnasium is even half-full; forever the anonymous afterthought, but best kept secret, reminiscent of a band like Flight of the Conchords winning Comedy Album of the Year with such little fanfare. The cheerleaders are comparable to the endlessly revolving door of interchangeable divas such as Christina, Britney, Mariah, or Gaga, all of whom would do absolutely anything for the attention, except be caught dead talking to me. Your vice-principal continues to drone on awkwardly as 'master of ceremonies,' laughing at his own awful jokes like a broke-ass Jimmy Fallon, while attempting to reprimand the group of kids' side-arming pennies at the pep band from the top corner of the bleachers. As far as me and the rest of the 'seat- fillers' at the event go, we're busy passing our own self-serving judgments. And instead of receiving the traditional swag bag like some Dolce Voce honey lemon throat spray, Paddywax eco-sensitive candles, and Nomiki Glynatsis Couture hair jewelry on my way out, I get punched squarely in the balls by a 6'5 inch, 285 pound nose tackle on the way back to my locker.
Perhaps these memorable adolescent experiences, along with my early disdain for those who didn't respect the Shelby Whippet Marching Band, fueled the cynicism I feel today for said award shows. I personally blame James Blunt. It started innocently enough as my wife and I sat down to watch the 2007 Grammy's. As time passed however, and James Blunt began to appear in every single category for that ridiculous "You're Beautiful" song and video, I began to shift uncomfortably on the couch. But as the nominations continued, my audible sighs slowly rose to a crescendo and quickly turned to a full-on verbal berating. It was as if someone flipped a switch. "We don't need a flippin' strip-tease James. Put your shirt back on you hippie, it's the arctic!" My wife turned toward me. I continued... "How predictable. You keep a stupid guitar pick in your pocket at all times. This just in - every kid that shops at Hot Topic does too, you d-bag." She's now glaring in my direction. "I hope you break both of your legs when you hit the water, and a pod of orcas are waiting at the bottom !" (*If you need the proper context for my italicized commentary, Youtube the video.) This seemingly isolated incident was only the beginning.
I took the 2008 Grammy's to an entirely different level. It was more a Friars Club Roast in our living room, and so much less the quiet night of television with a glass of Chianti that my wife had planned. But the nominees and presenters had it coming. They made it too easy. So easy, in fact, that the material virtually wrote itself. The onslaught began with Amy Winehouse, who appeared via satellite no less. "Congratulations on your big hit 'Rehab.' Enjoy the 15 minutes. By the way, I can't believe they tried to make you go. Although I wish someone had tried to make you go to the dentist first." No one was spared; Kid Rock, Miley Cyrus, and Bette Midler. Hell, they even let Jerry Lee Lewis out for the night. Of course the cherry on the sundae was an appearance by Cuba Gooding Jr.! "I guess Cuba had some free time on his hands considering Daddy Day Camp 2 hasn't started pre-production yet." At this point, my behavior (and language) had long since spiraled from control. Jason Knife, a friend who stopped in to watch the event that night, had seen enough. As he cautiously employed his exit strategy, Knife immortalized my now infamous rant by coining the term - "Going Grammy's." The rest is history.
I can't recall his exact quote regarding the birth of "Going Grammy's," but it was meant to insinuate the fact that its' usage could work in place of other colorful expressions that describe an unsolicited fit of rage. Or maybe it was simply a quick way of escaping an uncomfortable situation. In retrospect, I'm just lucky I didn't get a red wine bottle to the head. But there's only so much Josh Groban that a man can take. And I stand by that. These days I try to take things moment by moment. Just the same as I did while a disillusioned punk roaming the halls of Shelby High some 17 years ago. Ironically, the Tony Awards were on last night. And while I felt a yearning in the gut and twitch in the trigger finger, I was able to overcome the urge. "Hey Doogie Howser, you're welcome."
