Some perspective on the Grammys (or, flunking the Chipmunks test)

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Behind a Grammy

Behind a Grammy (Photo credit: James Munson)

The 55th annual Grammys are Sunday. I won’t watch, because, let’s face it, when it comes to recognizing good music, the Grammys have a pretty spotty record.

I the Grammys, like all showbiz awards, tend to focus on what’s popular at the moment. I don’t think we’ll really know the Album of the Year for 2012 until sometime in 2022.

For example, 20 years ago, the Grammy for Album of the Year went to Unplugged by Eric Clapton, probably because 1992 was the year Clapton came out with “Tears in Heaven,” which was about the death of his 4-year-old, and everybody loved the song.

I can’t argue with the single winning Song of the Year and Record of the Year, but I don’t think anyone considers Unplugged one of Clapton’s best albums, let alone one of the best album of 1992. Still, it beat the soundtrack to Beauty and the Best, Ingenue by k.d. lang, Diva by Annie Lennox and Achtung Baby by U2, which I think sounds a lot better now than it did then. Great albums like Automatic for the People by R.E.M., Kiko by Los Lobos and Joshua Judges Ruth by Lyle Lovett weren’t even nominated.

Also, consider this:

  • The Chipmunks have won three Grammys
  • That’s two more than Louis Armstrong or Hank Williams, neither of whom won for what anyone would consider their best work (Armstrong, a pioneering jazz trumpeter, won for singing “Hello, Dolly!” while Hank Williams won a Grammy for a “duet” that Hank Jr. cobbled together over 30 years after Hank Sr. died)
  • The Chipmunks also have won three more Grammys than the Beach Boys, Chuck Berry, Bob Marley, The Who or Diana Ross, with or without The Supremes (they haven’t won any)
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I Mememto’d myself

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You remember Memento. It’s the movie told in reverse about a guy with amnesia who tattoos important clues on his body so he’ll remember them. .

Well, I Memento’d myself.

ImageI wanted to cook something for a family Super Bowl party. I was flipping through a cookbook, and I found a recipe something called chicken, sausage and rice skillet that sounded really good and really easy, but then I noticed that I’d written a note to myself in the margins:

“NO.”

It was definitely my handwriting, and I’d underlined it for emphasis.

Apparently, I’d made it once before and thought it was so bad that I wanted to remind myself to never make it again, but I don’t ever making it, and I don’t know why I wouldn’t have liked it.

Chicken, sausage, onion, garlic, peppers, a can of chopped tomatoes, chicken broth, chick peas and spices, including turmeric, which is the only “unusual” ingredient on the list.

On paper, it sounded like something I’d like, although the kids probably wouldn’t eat it, because it didn’t contain either macaroni or cheese. I’m not crazy about chick peas, but I don’t hate them, and I could leave them out of the recipe entirely, but, no, that wasn’t good enough, apparently.

I’m taking my own advice — if I can’t trust me, who can I trust? — but it’s kind of scary to think I did something (stone-cold sober, I might add) that I don’t remember and that turned out so badly that I decided to warn myself not to try it again.

My cousin’s make-believe hog farm

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Drawing of a Hampshire hog

My mom’s cousin died a couple of weeks ago. He was my cousin, too, but he and Mom grew up together and were about the same age, so I think of him as her cousin. I didn’t know him well, but I always liked him, and I’ll never forget the story he told about the time he threatened to open a hog farm and slaughterhouse in his backyard

Morris lived out in the country. I don’t know how many acres he had, but it was a big backyard, big enough for a hog farm, anyway.

Some developers bought the land behind his and applied for a change in zoning so they could put up a subdivision. The county said OK, as long as the developers built a berm around the subdivision and planted enough trees to give the surrounding homeowners some privacy.

The developers built the berm but planted only a few trees and called it a day.

Morris didn’t like that. He complained to the county and the developers, but they didn’t do anything. The developers said they’d followed the letter of the agreement with the county and they weren’t going to waste time or money planting any more trees.

Morris didn’t think that was right.

He lived out in the country, on land that was zoned agricultural, so he went to the county and pulled a permit to build a hog farm. Then, he paid a guy to make him a big sign that he mounted on his side of the berm, positioned so everyone who came to look at lots in the subdivision could see it:

Coming soon: HOG FARM and world-class SLAUGHTERHOUSE!

Ands he listed his phone number.

Pretty soon, the developers called.

You’re bluffing, the developers said.

I just pulled the permits, my cousin said. They’re on file at the courthouse, if you want to check.

You’re not really going to build a slaughterhouse, the developers said.

Sure I am, my cousin said. It’s gonna be great, too. State of the art. Gonna have a few hundred hogs, make a lot of money.

Pretty soon, the developers sent a crew around to cover every square in of that berm with trees, and Morris pulled down the sign.