Red Carpet Massacre

Red carpet shows are a guilty, guilty pleasure. Jay and I watch them, I suspect, for the same reason others do: to rip on celebrities and make fun of the awkward hosts. Last night we watched the red carpet show for the Grammys, hosted by those two clams from E! Giuliana Rancic and Debbie Matenopoulos ("Debbie Mat" if you're a friend).Clueless as Giuliana is, she tried to shoo away the Foo Fighters after she had exhausted her list of unresearched questions ("OMG, where did you get the name for your band?" "Has fatherhood cramped your rock-star style?"). Um, by the way, they're up for--and won--Best Rock Album. But no, someone more important was coming up behind them. I can't remember perfectly, but I think that someone was everyone's favorite tranny, Fergie.
Debbie Mat, who resembles a leather handbag and doesn't have the cans to fill out this dress, offered her insights on the new trends (day-glow nail polish! jewel-toned dresses!) and repeatedly told Giuliana how fab she is. Hard to believe they kicked her off The View. Other findings: I must officially be old because I don't know who the hell these people are...

Who are you? And where did you get my cousin's bridesmaid's dress from 1983?
And you? What's your excuse?

Who I did like: Rhianna (and you do too, admit it. You like that Umbrella -ella, -ella tune, cuz it's catchy as hell; and because short hair rocks). However, it was creepy watching Morris Day sing "what I'm gonna do to you" while leering at her during their performance together. I felt dirty.

Who the show needed: JT, Duran Duran. Who it didn't need: an unrehearsed Kid Rock. Or any Kid Rock, for that matter. Oh yeah, and kudos to Bateman for his snide remark about people who don't know who John Paul Jones is. Arrested Development, we hardly knew ye.