Hey yah! Anybody out there?

A guest culture blogger tackles the Grammys, and all the night's big questions: Who likes that Justin Timberfake? Where's Jan Jax? And how can he land a full-time gig?

By Neal Pollack

Published February 9, 2004 6:54AM (EST)

If there was one good thing to come out of Nipplegate, it's that the big media -- and I mean you, Salon.com, thanks for the gig! -- finally started to pay attention to the real faboo writers out there in Netland. The moment that Tittiegate tore open, and I mean right away, there must have been 10 thou of us slapping our keys, figgerin' out the cultural score at halftime. It wasn't JanJax's boobie-oobie that was the big news, or Justin Pattycake's so very I'm-not-gay-rip-your-clothes-off-alterna-frat dancing. The coverage was way more important than the story. Our instant online commentary was so haps that if you blinked, you missed the word. Dancing Darlene and Joey Munch Munch were the best whores out of the gate. Much bling to them. The Day After, Nude Yorkie dot com scorched the Earth by interviewing Hellaslut, the rad DJ and blog bitch who started it all. By the way, I totally sang the Stills at after-hours karaoke last night.

We're making gossip on our own termz now. Saggymelongate was last week. When you're a Hipster Winchell, there's no time to go blinkers. You've got to be watching all the time. I pronounce this The O.C. Returns To The Air, Finally, Week. Mischa, darling, eat some ham! Adam Brody, call me!

Jannie Jackoo is a little fraidy red hen, and CBS is going to have a five-minute delay whether you like it or not, Jermaine Duprude. But that's OK, because my mind is always five minutes ahead. And who cares if the broadcast ends at 11:30 p.m.? That's when I usually wake up! Next weekend, I'm heading to Philly, the city of BroLo, to see the Fabulous Ms. Laverne, who looks just like Karen O. It's gonna kick! But first, the Grammys. Music is all about the jiggle, Dave Grohl, you phony Phoo Phighter. We can only pray for another Bazongagate. I'm lookin' at you, Meg White.

Note to Prince: Your songs are not going to work at the Bellagio, so quit trying. You're still too black for Vegas, baby. Is that Huey Lewis' horn section? Must be, if Justin Timberfake likes it. Quentin Tarantino thinks that Prince and Beyoncé together are the bomb! Remember, QT, that some bombs can be STANKY. I wanna see Beyoncé's right titty! It's very possible that cultural censorship could be the new fascism. Are you listening, VH1 producers? These are my obs, and they are hotttt!

The Beatles suck even worse when you substitute Dave Matthews for John Lennon. If you want danger, listen to the mofo Kinks! For pictures of me licking Miss Ellie and Pedro at New Wave Karaoke last night, click here.

Grammy cameraman! Please show more close-ups of Meg. I don't wanna see Jack. He's scary! The White Stripes will go down as one of the greatest bands in RAWK history. I knew it the first time I saw them at the Magic Stick. I've archived the photos from that show. Meg, baby. I will come to you in the dark of night when you call for me! I dare anyone to watch that performance -- come on, loserz, you know you're watching -- and tell me that rock 'n' roll is dead. MUSIC IS ALIVE IN AMERICA, PEOPLE! Like I said six months ago on PopCultureNotes, Jack White and Andre 3000 are the true musical geniuses of our time!

Great. "Cry Me a River," only the second-best tune ever with that title, just won an award for Most-Overrated Song. No apologies, wuss, no apolo ... Dammit! What occurred, Bustin Pimplesteak, was not "intentional," and was not "regrettable." No offense taken here. I had a stiffy that didn't go away until the fourth quarter. Now you get a Grammy, wigga, and we'll never get to see Janet's tatas again. Thanks a damn lot!

Posting will be sporadic for the next 20 minutes. I'll be taking the subway into Manhattan. Nellie Sluttburger's having people over for a Second Half Of The Grammys party. She's promised some Spin-The-Bottle and Stoli Orange. You know where NellNell lives. Meet me there, you lame-o spazz!

Madonna-Whore took a few minutes off from writing her next kid's book, "A Childhood Garden of Chastity," to show off her friendship with Sting, who introduced her to her hubby, Guy Ritchie. Hey, Stinger? Can you invite me over to yer loncheria so I can meet Nicole Richie? She really soaks my panties.

Sean Paul? I hear better rizzeggae on a Tuesday night in Williamsburg.

This wuz just the first nite in a HUGE year for Hilary Duffmaster. This tyme next year, she won't just be presenting a Grammy. She'll be winning one. But watch your back, darlin'! I got the lowdown on Lindsey Lohan. "Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen" has the smoke and the fire. When is that freaky missy gonna be 18, anyway? Freckled and fine!

Oh, my god! Yoko Ono! That bee-yotch broke up the Beatles. Attention VH1 Producers. I have an idea. Last weekend, I was watching my Tivo of the Flock of Seagulls episode of Bands Reunited. The best! My palz Lemon Square and Love Muffin and I were tokin' and jokin', and I said, what about a show called "Breaking Up the Band," where the hosts spread nasty rumors and sleep with different musicians? It'd be like "Othello," but totally pop! Love Muffin offered to be the host. First up: the Strokes! Woof woof!

Black Eyed Peas, lookin' fine, ask, Where Is Tha Love? I got yer answer, right here, at the sweet-ass LES loft of the great Ms. Nellie Sluttburger. If there's one blogger whose hole we ALL want to plug, it's Nellie, esp. when she breaks out the Stoli mojitos. This woman, who coined the phrase "Brooklyn Pole-Sniff" while perfecting the position -- in reverse -- keeps the baddest damn Web site this side of St. Louis. As Lori The Backstage L.A. Prostitute says, "Nellie's not the sheezle, she's the beezle ebeneezle!" Word.

It might have been nice if June Carter Cash had won a Grammy when she was alive, and you can quote me on that, Mr. Washington Post.

Oh, for the Passion Of Christ! The Best New Artist is not Evanescence. It has got to be Stellastarr* or Maybe Franz Ferdinand. No. Strike that. I love love love the Fiery Furnaces more than I love matzoh. And that's a lot.
POSTED AT 10:04 P.M.

Samuel L. Jackson tells us: Funk makes us move! Funk makes us dance! Funk is inside the people! Yassuh! It sho is! I likes to dance to da funk! Earth, Wind, Fire, Outkast and Robert Randolph. Damn! George Clinton better book P-Funk some time in Tha Cosmic Rehearsal Studio! All we need now is La Jacka's honkers to make the night complete.

Ding-dong! FelonyMelanie just spun the bottle my way. I'm sorry. I can't hear you. There's a tongue in my ear!
POSTED AT 10:21 P.M.

The Foo Fighters and Chick Corea! Justin Timberlake and Arturo Sandoval! 50 Cent and Yitzhak Perlman!
POSTED AT 10:32 P.M.

Well, the Grammys sucked, as usual. The best music is in the hearts of the people, natch. Whoever didn't nominate Les Savy Fav, again, or Dizzee Rascal, for the first time, should have their pubes shaved.

Gotta work tomorrow. Sux. If anyone out there knows of a job, any job, in the media, preferably writing but also editing or even publicity, email me. But I'm gonna need the weekend of May 1-2 off. Know that in advance. See you at Coachella, suckahs. Hey ya!
POSTED AT 11:28 P.M.

Neal Pollack

Neal Pollack has been the Greatest Living American Writer since the dawn of American letters in the early 1930s, or possibly before. He first came to the public’s attention writing for McSweeney’s in the late 1990s, and then through the publication of "The Neal Pollack Anthology Of American Literature," the greatest book in American literary history, and possibly in the literary history of all the Americas. The author of dozens of books of fiction, nonfiction, fictional nonfiction, poetry, screenplays, interviews, and diet tips, Neal Pollack lives in a mansion on the summit of Mount Winchester with his beleaguered manservant, Roger. He has outlived Christopher Hitchens, Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer, and many more, and will outlive all of you, too. Follow him on Twitter at @Neal Pollack

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