Monday, February 13, 2017

February 13, 2017

Dear Diary,

What an exciting night! Dr. Morell still doesn't want me roaming free on the streets recommend I go out in public just yet, but I didn't care since one of my favorite awards shows was on last night:  The Grammys!  Chel is always kidding me that the show is all about me because she says her half-Jew children think I'm the greatest Grammy in the whole world and not just because I give them each a crisp new Benjamin every time they visit.  Those grandchildren are so sweet.  I really hope they don't look too semitic when they grow up.

Of course I know the Grammys are all about music! I'm no square! Not that I like to brag, but I was pretty in the know back when most of these millennials were nothing more than a good reason to wash sticky sheets. These kids today think anything with a jungle beat and no melody qualifies as music, but when we were young, it was all about Michael Jackson and Prince, two of America's best and shortest non-white black Afro-American pop musicians ever!

Needless to say, these awards show can go on forever, but I have to say I thought Bruno Magli's tribute to Prince was very special and heart-warming.  Back in the eighties, you were either a Prince fan or a Michael Jackson fan, and the two of them had sort of a rivalry: Jackson was into children (my unfortunate choice of words, diary) and Prince was short.  Really short.  Prince was so short that the only person he could dance with was Robert Reich, who I think checks in at four foot ten on his tippy toes.

Of the three, only Reich is still alive, probably because U.C. Berkeley gave him a boat load of money and promised he could live in a hollowed out tree stump in the forest just north of the campus.  I remember Reich.  God, what a whiner.  I mean that man could complain about anything.  Always playing the victim, probably because he's so short.  Bill used to invite him to parties, but wouldn't let Reich discuss economic policy unless he wore a pointy little elf hat and green tights.  Then he'd make Reich go around to each guest and grant them each three wishes.

I guess it made an impact, because it formed the basis of Reich's economic policies, which he'd pitch to Bill as Secretary of Labor.  Bill gave him the job because that office was a few blocks away and Bill knew Reich's little legs would take too long to get to the White House, giving Bill time to duck out the back door.  Then Reich would show up all out of breath and ask, "Where's the President?" and everyone would laugh.  Ah, good times.  These days, all Reich does is make YouTube videos nobody watches and not one of them has any music or dancing.  He doesn't even wear the hat or the tights any more.

Anyway, I loved the music show and was glued to the set for every single minute, although I have to admit I don't really know who most of the artists were.  I do know that most of them are black young and that those who aren't black try as hard as they can to be black very talented. Confidentially, diary, I don't buy any of their music. I'm still too into my dad's old polka records.  Bill says that once you've heard a jungle beat, they all sound the same.  He still plays Donna Summer's "Love to Love You Baby" on repeat whenever he takes a shower.

I know.

I can hear it through the walls.  Tee hee.


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