The only reason I turned on the Red Carpet pre-Grammy show and then the awards program was to lay down my own brand of snark during a live chat on a website that shall remain anonymous because I don't want to get some accusations of libel slapped on my big, fat fanny.
That being said, declaring myself a fashionista is very far fetched. Likewise, I don't fancy myself a musicologist. Simply put, I know what I like and Lady Gaga ain't it! Nor is Bon Jovi. Gack! The highlight for me was the Les Paul tribute by Imelda May performing with Jeff Beck. I could have handled ten more minutes of that.
So, let me track back. Bitching was going to be put on the back burner. In fact, I was going to take the high road and just let water flow under the bridge. But then I decided I needed to get this off my ample bosom. I was chatting along wonderfully last night. We were dogging the heinous couture of the celebs on the red carpet. A good time was being had by all. The catch to this 'chat' is that all comments have to be approved by whomever is at the helm of the hosting site. My comments were flying on the screen until the control of approval was handed over to someone who has inexplicable, deep seated contempt for me. (Seriously, get over it dewd.) My comments were halted. It wasn't from a lack of trying. As you all know, I have a lot to say without fear of expressing my opinions. I was behaving, mind you. There weren't any expletives being thrown out there. Non-moderated status was given to nearly everyone else on the panel except for me. Why? I have no idea other than some foolish man's pettiness. I have no doubt that he-who-abuses-minute power will attempt to blame the quirks of technology. That lame excuse worked once. By the way, I only accepted that cock and bull story to keep the peace.