American Music Awards, In front of my TV, 2007

We got home last night a little after seven from picking up the kids, only to turn on the TV and find full-on naked mannequin nipples in my face. Right as I registered what I was looking at I heard shrill screams coming from my bedroom where I had just sent the kids upstairs to gather up their laundry, where they naturally turned on the TV only to find the very same nipples.

All I could really hear beyond their screams were the years of carefully placed parental shielding being flushed away down the laundry shoot in the form of silver boobs and black nipples, apparently on stage for no other reason than had they put real naked ladies on stage it would have been against the law. I'm thinking at least a felony and lots of brow beating by the sensor police.

My son was particularly horrified and I found him rocking in the corner with his arms wrapped around his knees and his angry cries muffled by his new fleece pajama pants. It's okay, lovie, just because mine don't stand up like that doesn't mean those are that horrible. They actually looked a bit like Angelina's in Beowolf, which is a whole nother story.

The American Music Awards are the People's Choice Awards for musicians. You already know who is going to win because they're the only ones sitting right there in the audience. Except for JT, who was via satellite and through off my 99.9% guess-the-winner-rate. The winners along with a few they most likely bribed with promises of free stuff and the chance to get a camera close-up in the audience, which could boost your career, you know, if you were Kelly Pickler.

There was actually one award that hadn't been decided yet and you could "text" your vote in right this minute. Sure. Let me just call up my wireless company and change my plan real quick. Then I'll have to dig out my manual and read about how to actually text someone. Then I'll have to call my 13 year old neighbor and see if she can come over and show me. Honestly, I think Big Brother is trying to oust the over 30-year-olds out the window. I listen to music. I'm hip. So what if I don't have a teenager yet who won't answer her phone so I have to resort to texting her stuff like "B HOM 4 Dinner OE". I still matter. Right?

Wrong. They are so over us oldies it's ridiculous. That's why everyone on that show except for the Rascal Flats were younger than me, or at least they look older. Who listens to them anyway? Country teenage texters, that's who. Oh and Celine, who finally broke out of Vegas and wants her career back. You can keep trilling little lady, but we're all done. The world can only take so much drumbeats to the chest.

My husband asked me today why we don't have the new Maroon 5 cd yet. It's because we already have it, I told him, it's called Songs About Jane. I absolutely loved their first cd. The second one could stand in for the first one. The nasally pitch is now as old as Celine.

Overall the awards were fine. Good music, decent timing, boring. Other than the nipples I almost fell asleep. I missed some stuff, because I had to put my injured children to bed and try to console them enough to save a few shreds of their childhood. As my son wept himself to sleep he asked me, "Mom, why do they have to do that stuff?"

And I replied, "It's rock and roll, baby, and nobody said it'd be pretty."

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