There was not much to watch on TV last night. I already knew Roger Federer had won the Australian Open so there was no tennis. Golf was suspended by darkness. And I don’t watch college basketball.
Scanning the guide, no movie titles caught my eye. Or Sandra’s.
So we let CBS stay on after the golf.
The Grammy Awards came on.
I had my eyes closed, figuring the sound would lull me to sleep, but there was zero chance of that. The racket wouldn’t allow it. And what I heard left me clueless.
It all merged in a relentless cacophony punctuated by random shout-outs to CBS and occasional protestations against sexual harassment, racist immigration policies and other blights that afflict our society. Someone even read from Michael Wolff’s book about Trump’s sorry White House.
So I scanned the web this morning to try and find out what happened.
Reportedly, someone named Bruno Mars (photo) won Song of the Year and Album of the Year and someone named Kendrick Lamar won five awards for something else. But what struck me the most reading this morning’s reviews was the macabre tone of the event.
There wasn’t much joy in last night’s recitals. They reflected the darker side of American life. Many of the night’s songs dealt with oppression, struggle and even death.
I recall one young singer’s cry that her man kept putting her “through hell,” for example. Some of the sars evoked the memory of those horrible mass shootings at concerts during the year. And one of the night’s featured performances was a song about suicide.
Is this the real state of the union?
I bet that’s not the picture Trump is going to present on Tuesday. But, sadly, it’s sure to be a lot closer to the truth.