I'm a glutton for punishment. And not of the "I slipped and won't make this mistake again," but of the "there's 2 hours of your life gone... was it really worth it?" variety. So now, I can finally admit without trepidation... I'm in an S&M relationship with craptastic "special presentations" geared to the urban audience.

Less interesting than the Country Music Association's shindig at MSG and with a budget of pocket lint and shoestrings, the taped telecast was broadcast from the Econo Lodge in downtown L.A. with designated UPN Negro spokesmodel Tracee Ellis Ross and the Chris Farley of Black comedy, Anthony Anderson as the supposed "celebrity hosts." In its third year, the bonus should be that all attendants left without any puncture wounds after last year's melee involving a crowd participant, Dr. Dre & Young Buck.

Kicking off this banquet in red carpet clothing was the incredible miming hermaphrodite her(him)self, the laughably monikered "Queen of Crunk & B" Ciara. Try as she might to pillage the polished precision of her most obvious influence - Janet Jackson - she couldn't hold her nipple shield even at La J's most bloated. Gone are the times of actually rehearsing something that'll make the kiddies want to memorize the moves to bust out at the playground the next day. Merely popping your flat ass and whipping wet 'n wavy yak hair around in a hornet's nest constitutes groundbreaking choreography nowadays. The most telling moment of this limp opener came at the mandatory "hold up, wait a minute" fancy footwork breakdown to a shitty remix.

"Ya'll wanna see me dance?"

The audience who were probably already agitated with the hors d'oeurves of pigs in a blanket and cubed Cracker Barrel certainly didn't warm up to her call and response.

*crickets chirping*
*tumblewood rolling by*

Maybe she should've just canned the Boys & Girls Club of Compton as her backing troupe and just whipped her dick out for amusement. Now there's fine FCC-endorsed fun for the entire family.

Up next on the Saturday afternoon Soul Train throwback to forgettable appearances was Young Jeezy and Akon's descent to utter laziness. How in the hell is it necessary to lip synch a goddamn rap song with a one-octave hook?!

Leave it up to the brainchildren at Vibe to come up with the dumbest categories (Hottest Hook, anyone?) and even dumber reasons to bestow honors to the most baffling choices. Case in point, the Stepford beard of hip-hop, Kimora Lee Simmons.

Dual winner for Vibe Vixen (the hell?) and even more egregious - VStyle (are you fucking kidding me? Baby Phat earns more revenue on the clearance rack rather than full-priced retail), Kimmy Lee unveiled her newest look. Imitation dancehall queen. Following in the bargain basement attire of her Asian sistren Junko, ol' Kimono got wiggy with it as a walking platinum blonde mess.

Even more troubling from Kim-Foo Young was the constant giggly shoutouts to the mogul midget who could as "her baby daddy" as if the patronizing attempts to be "down" in a room full of Nigras would be well received.

One of these days, my wish to see Ball Park frank neck banished to the confines of their Saddle River compound for good will be realized.

After channel surfing for an eternity to try and replenish the many brain cells lost while falling under UPN's kryptonite haze, I clicked back to see that the Next award for best new artist wound up as.... a tie! A collective eye roll was given as both Young Jeezy and Keyshia Cole were the recipients. Since when was the NHL a corporate sponsor? There's no ties in nonsensical award shows!

And speaking of Ms. Cole, anyone know if she was home schooled at a correctional facility? Her diction is right up there with such other well known scholars in the industry who have mastered the art of enunciation obliteration to a tee.

Ludacris + a confederate flag jumpsuit = pretty fucking stupid. This Quik rabbit trapped in the body of a My Buddy doll has been teetering on the edge of "nutty nigga-itis" for some time now, but he's finally sunk into the abyss of latent stupidity. What's next? Ropes around our neck and pointy white hoods as the newest trend to turn negative historical symbols into an acceptable form of culture pimping for the masses?

I know it's the heartwarming tale to see a former pop star rise like a phoenix once more to conquer the charts, but Tina Turner clearly Mariah Carey ain't. Four Lego model statuettes seemed more than a bit excessive for my tastes, but in happier news - Mary J. Blige appears to be hitting the crack pipe again. Picking a fight with the editor-in-chief (wish they would've aired that one) because the mag cover on newsstands now resemble Chester the Cheetah while accepting an undeserved Legend Award? Could this be scripted any better? Hallelujah! Finally, some decent material to look forward to now. Call me cold and bitchy, but the "no more drama" version 2.0 of MJB has produced nothing but extra drink coasters from 1997 onwards. Every cloud has a silver lining, and in the grand scheme of a telecast that made even BET look current, I'll take whatever I can get.

Labels: award shows, music, TV