Jimmy Fallon, of all people!

Before the 2010 Emmys dim completely in the pop culture memory bank, I have to lift an imaginary glass of the beer I don't drink to Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I've seen his late-night gig, but never forced myself to concentrate and truly give the guy a chance.

I was concentrating last Sunday during the Emmy opening sketch/musical triumph. It turns out that Jimmy Fallon can play a very mean guitar and brilliantly sing like a lot of people, including (for that blazing opener) Bruce Springsteen. Fallon and an oddball crew of surprising talents, plus the wizard leads from "Glee", knocked out one of the very the best openings of an awards show I've seen in the bazillion years I've been watching awards shows.


For three hours, the whole affair levitated every time Fallon stepped on the stage.

I will never ignore Jimmy Fallon again. Neither will millions of other people who saw the Emmys, and really saw Jimmy Fallon, finally.

Whew. Finally, I understand my great affection for the reality TV celebrity  Bethenny Frankel. The (former? current?) co-star of "The Real Housewives of New York City" happens to be a humorous, brainy writer.

I'm not referring to her two co-authored "Skinny Girl" diet-related bestsellers. I haven't even read them yet. I'm talking about her top-of-the-head commentary throughout her solo Bravo series, "Bethenny Getting Married?" As new husband Jason (astute observer!) commented, Bethenny has been made warmer, more nurturing, more forgiving and more open by marriage and motherhood.

Still, she's got enough bitchery in her to spice up the just-revealed niceness. I laughed loudly and often during the series.

Bethenny, let the funny run loose in your next book. You have another career out there waiting for you to take the quantum leap of faith in a nascent literary gift.

Do I Have To Get Grumpy?

I'm wondering about my innate levels of grumpiness.

I made a moderate amount of dough in the Eighties writing reviews and critical pieces -- but I never felt entirely comfortable commiting my opinions to print where the musicians in question could read the judgements and actually have crummy feelings about them.

As an inconsistent singer/songwriter who worked in low-rent bars in the Seventies, I knew how performers and artists felt getting bad reviews.

The review I remember most vividly came in Houston, Texas, at a singles bar. I was in an inspiringly mediocre band based in a small Midwestern town. We got this Houston gig on exceedingly short notice and drove forty-eight hours straight to arrive there more or less on time. The guys' faces needed shaving and my dress needed ironing. We all looked drugged by the exhaustion.

"Hi," I hollered to the crowd while the men hustled around the small stage, plugging in amps and checking connections. "We're Music Kicks, and we came here all the way from Iowa."

The drawl curled up slow, low, Southern and loud.  "You shoulda stayed there."

We all spent most of the week catching bronchitis from each other thanks in part to frigid air conditioning.

Ten years after I wrote a review of a Hall and Oates album for a national publication, Daryl Hall interrupted a friendly, long chat to tell me how much I hurt his girlfriend when I called the lyrics to "Maneater" sexist.

I felt pained that Sarah had taken it so hard, even while she made a king's ransom in royalties from the tune. "It's a good source of income, so why does she care what I said? I've never  been a big-deal critic or anything."

"But you're a woman," he replied, still looking distressed. "She thought you'd understand. You sound intelligent when you write -- she knew you were one of the sharp ones. Money doesn't stop anyone from wantiing support and applause."  He laughed, apparently relieved that at least I responded with concern."The ones who say they don't care are liars."

I've always preferred writing musicians' profiles anyway.

Still, the inner Miss Opinions takes the reviewer jobs when they're there.

I try to write smart, write fair, write funny, and stick in a little snark to pay homage to some of my favorite critics.

There, now, I've revealed myself to be A Wimpy Critic. Do I have to get grumpy to be interesting for even myself to read?

Sarah would say no, I bet. She'd tell me to fake the snark, feign the grump and without getting corny, write from the heart.

I could do that, Sarah. I hope.

Every Year. The Cute and Talent-Free

I wish no ill on Casey James, one of the final three on the current "American Idol" season.
But the man can only lay claim to being an adequate bar band singer.

The most memorable thing about Blondie's voice isn't a good thing.

It's his vibrato, rapid-fire, jagged. As Kara said when she (finally!) noticed it, James' vibrato resembles the sounds that sheep make.

How the heck did James take a spot in the final three when a master-in-the-making, Big Mike Lynch, was sent packing?

I hate to credit James' looks, but his sweet appearance and sweet personality tipped the scales. Lynch has a great personality but he's not pretty.

Crystal Bowersox could be as pretty as Casey James, but she refuses to fuss. The year's best singer is in the final three anyway.

Like Simon might say it, sometimes America gets it right.

Sometimes. The final two knockout is making me sweat.

Guilt and Guts, Part One: I Watch Big Brother 11.

As of April 2010, I've shied away from this blog for almost a year.
Last time,I stayed away from my own blog for five whole months, because I feared lack of quality. In blogland I think that's called "Guilt and Guts Syndrome".

One can't write badly and feel guilty about it around here. In blogville roam countless readers who are experts at separating the good-bad from the bad-bad. They tend to gravitate toward writers with the guts to post both.

So I'm back, with something I truly should feel guilty about, according to most of my highly educated and wise-from-birth friends. I watch "Big Brother". I don't know when I started. I don't know how I do it. But at least now I know why.

I was one of those kids who didn't get picked much for teams, having worn glasses and undergone eye surgeries since age 3. No eye-hand coordination. I wasn't terribly interested in teams, anyway, being one of those artsy types. Art done by teams: that's where bad advertising is born.

Lately it's dawned on me that knowing how to function in teams makes up a critical part of the maturation process. It also helps you to survive retail jobs. So I'm fascinated with some of the reality television series semi-grounded in teams. "Big Brother" pits individuals against teams -- often the teams they're in. But the team lessons are there to be had, so I'm fascinated.

Tonight showcased a first-time surprise. A house resident deliberately got herself expelled from the game. Fired from her gig on the show itself. Or as I immediately thought of it, out of current need and greed: "she just killed her source of paychecks!"

It was one of the two Whiner Sisters, Chima. Like the other Whiner, Natalie, she's a "Big Brother" player who probably got hired for her lack of ability to discern between a game and real life. When one of the other players got her favorite human in the house "evicted" (BB term), Chima's brain shifted just enough on its axis. Yelling, moaning. Cursing. Weeping. Groaning. Public displays of anguish. And so on.

She became most notorious for ignoring various producers' voices over the house system, politely commanding the cast members to go here or there, do this or that -- directing the cast members, in other words, so that they could do their jobs.

Chima topped off her "Rebel Without A Clue" siege by tossing her body microphone into a pond in the set's back yard -- while the director of the moment urged her to put it on her body.

The next morning, she was ultra gone. Her Whiner Sister, Natalie, became uncorked.

I whine and get dramatic sometimes. Compared to the Whiner Sisters of Big Brother 11, I am the mistress of team cooperation and workplace self-control.

Television as therapy? Hey, I'd gladly pay Chima ten bucks for the therapy session she provided. Of course, CBS was paying her more, which would be part of my point.

I would have worn that microphone clipped to my upper lip if the bosses had asked.

Adam Lambert Took Temporary Control of This Blog.

I don't really want to write about Adam Lambert twice back-to-back.


He's making me do it.


I wanted to see him go into musical and visual areas that might risk his confidence, that would at least shake up his
Phantom of the Eighties eyeliner shtick. I wasn't sure he could do it.



He did it. Twice. The last two "American Idol"-casts, Lambert changed a lot without changing what seems to be real Adam.



The week after my mini-fit post, Smokey Robinson mentored the Idol cast through Motown week.



Hey, talk about a natural spot for glam/theater rocker Lambert to oversing, over arrange, overdress, and blow himself to bits. Instead, he wiped
off the eyeliner, ditched the nail polish, swept the black
bangs back into a patent leather pomp. He wore a suit
coat.

The arrangement and the vocal he created for Robinson's "Tracks Of My Tears" quieted
everything down to a few instruments (with cello providing much of the melancholy) and a reigned-in piece of singing.

Smokey Robinson himself gave Lambert a standing ovation.

This past week, the final nine had to choose from the vast world of iTunes downloads. Like
it's often said, give anybody enough rope...The judges found their mantra early in the night:
"I just don't think that song choice works for you."

Lambert kept the brushed-back pomp hair (one small victory for dragging him into the 21st century). He took the goofball classic "Play That Funky Music White Boy" (Wild Cherry) and switched the time signature, for most of the song save the guts of the choruses. Singing it in 2/4 gave the song a transfusion of modern funk/hip hop. Unexpected, and just too much fun.

Lambert himself was having more fun than anyone else in the Kodak Theater, which is saying a whole lot. His falsetto chased the high passages of the original out of town. He remade a version that's legitimately his own.

The guy may have hideous taste in hair, eye make-up, manicures, and some stage clothes. He may have questionable taste in musical heroes. He may say too much when asked questions.

Those things matter less each week. Not only can Adam L. sing just about anything, he co-creates (with the "Idol" house band) pretty original arrangements and instrumentation.

He has fun doing all of it.

Okay, I yell uncle. I may not ever be a devoted
Lambert fan, but the man has my respect.

If he'd lift several shades of black dye from his hair? I'd reconsider the fan thing.

If the Straitjacket Fits

Andy Dick had a happy moment during tonight's episode of "Sober House" (VH-1). House residents' team leader Jennifer was exploding verbally onto resident Seth during a house outing to a paintball game.

Andy stood close enough for a front row view of Jennifer's hurt and anger. He was smiling.

"I love to see people get upset," he said to the camera crew. Then it was something like "I don't know why, but I do."

Thank you, Mr. Dick -- you bullseyed my problem with a lot of reality series.

I love watching people handle competition. I love watching people make big strides in beating their demons, needless inhibitions, career obstacles, etc.. I love watching people find out how to manage big talent, how to manage disappointment about the limits of that talent. If any of it makes me laugh, all the better.

But I don't laugh watching other people melt down. Even if they're being self-indulgent drama kings or queens, which is often the case on reality shows, I feel empathy pangs at times. Self-indulgent drama is a personal talent I'm in the process of extracting. Still, you can book me for possession.

I've seen Andy Dick do the same theatrical melt-down dance that Jennifer was doing, so why was it funny for him to watch her? He seems to like her a great deal, actually. Not today, however.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to empathize. TV critics always say that these "cast members" are merely exhibitionists. They swear they're trying to get sober or win money for charity or whatever. Actually, the critics shrug, they're just trying to get jumper cables for their careers.

Still, there's some reality in a good deal of reality television. I don't know if Jennifer was being a drama queen tonight or not.

I just know that a version of her straitjacket still fits me. Hopefully, not too much longer.

Mood Meter: down 2 points.